L. Orl. 'Twas my desire; begin good Viramour.
Musick, a Song, at the end of it enter Montague, fainting, his Sword drawn.
L. Orl. What's he Viramour?
Vir. A goodly personage.
Mont. Am I yet safe? or is my flight a dream?
My wounds and hunger tell me that I wake:
Whither have my fears born me? no matter where,
Who hath no place to goe to, cannot err:
What shall I do? cunning calamity!
That others gross wits uses to refine,
When I most need it duls the edg of mine.
L. Orl. Is not this Montagues voyce?
Vir. My Masters? fie.
Mont. What sound was that, 'pish,
Fear makes the wretch think every leaf oth' Jury:
What course to live, 'beg? better men have done it,
But in another kind: steal? Alexander
Though stil'd a Conqueror, was a proud thief,
Though he rob'd with an Army; fie how idle
These meditations are: though thou art worse
Than sorrows tongue can speak thee, thou art still,
Or shouldst be, honest Montague.
L. Orl. 'Tis too true.
Vir. 'Tis he: what villains hands did this? oh that my flesh
Were Balm; in faith Sir, I would pluck it off
As readily as this; pray you accept
My will to do you service: I have heard
The Mouse once sav'd the Lyon in his need,
As the poor Scarab spild the Eagles seed.