Alcan. What is’t that thou cal’st Merit?
He fought, it’s true, so did you, and I,
And gain’d as much as he o’th’ Victory,
But he in the Triumphal Chariot rode,
Whilst we ador’d him like a Demi-God.
He with the Prince an equal welcome found,
Was with like Garlands, though less Merit, crown’d.
Fal. He’s in the right for that, by Jove.
Pis. Nay, now you wrong him.
Alcan. What’s he I should not speak my sense of him?
Pis. He is our General.
Alcan. What then?
What is’t that he can do, which I’ll decline?
Has he more Youth, more Strength, or Arms than I?
Can he preserve himself i’th’ heat of the Battle?
Or can he singly fight a whole Brigade?
Can he receive a thousand Wounds, and live?
Fal. Can you or he do so?
Alcan. I do not say I can; but tell me then, Where be the Virtues of this mighty Man, That he should brave it over all the rest?
Pis. Faith, he has many Virtues, and much Courage; And merits it as well as you or I: Orgulius was grown old.
Alcan. What then?