Soph. How fares the noble Roman?
Mar. Why?
Dor. Your blood
Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes
Have lost their splendor.
Mar. Baser fires go out,
When the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well,
An Apoplectick fit I use to have
After my heats in war carelesly coold.
Soph. Martius shall rest in Athens with his friends,
Till this distemper leave him: O! great Roman,
See Sophocles doe that for thee, he could not
Do for himself, weep. Martius, by the——
It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer
Under the bodies weak infirmitie.
Sweet Lady, take him to thy loving charge,
And let thy care be tender.
Dor. Kingly Sir,
I am your Nurse and servant.
Mar. O deer Lady,
My Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven,
Ten wreathes triumphant Martius will give,
To change a Martius for a Sophocles:
Can't not be done (Valerius) with this boot?
Inseparable affection, ever thus
Colleague with Athens Rome.
Dor. Beat warlike tunes,
Whilest Dorigen thus honors Martius brow
With one victorious wreath more.
Soph. And Sophocles
Thus girds his Sword of conquest to his thigh,
Which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie.
Lords. For ever be it thus. [Exeunt.