Ard. So godly;
This is ill breeding, Phorba.
Phor. If the women
Should have a longing now to see this Monster,
And she convert 'em all.
Ard. That may be, Phorba,
But if it be, I'll have the young men gelded;
Come, let's go think, she must not 'scape us thus;
There is a certain season, if we hit,
That women may be rid without a Bit. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Maximus, and Æcius.
Max. I cannot blame the Nations, noble friend,
That they fall off so fast from this wild man,
When (under our Allegiance be it spoken,
And the most happy tye of our affectio[n]s)
The worlds weight groans beneath him; Where lives vertue,
Honour, discretion, wisdom? who are call'd
And chosen to the steering of the Empire
But Bawds, and singing Girls? O my Æcius
The glory of a Souldier, and the truth
Of men made up for goodness sake, like shells
Grow to the ragged walls for want of action;
Only your happy self, and I that love you,
Which is a larger means to me than favour.
Æci. No more, my worthy friend, though these be truths,
And though these truths would ask a Reformation,
At least a little squaring: yet remember,
We are but Subjects, Maximus; obedience
To what is done, and grief for what is ill done,
Is all we can call ours: The hearts of Princes
Are like the Temples of the gods; pure incense,
Until unhallowed hands defile those offerings,
Burns ever there; we must not put 'em out,
Because the Priests that touch those sweets, are wicked;
We dare not, dearest Friend, nay more, we cannot,
While we consider who we are, and how,
To what laws bound, much more to what Law-giver;
Whilest Majesty is made to be obeyed,
And not to be inquired into, whilst gods and angels
Make but a rule as we do, though a stricter;
Like desperate and unseason'd Fools let flye
Our killing angers, and forsake our honours.
Max. My noble Friend, from whose instructions
I never yet took surfeit, weigh but thus much,
Nor think I speak it with ambition,
For by the gods, I do not; why Æcius,
Why are we thus, or how become thus wretched?
Æcius. You'll fall again into your fit.
Max. I will not;
Or are we now no more the Sons of Romans,
No more the followers of their happy fortunes,
But conquer'd Gauls, or Quivers for the Parthians?
Why, is this Emperour, this man we honour,
This God that ought to be?