From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory:
O, that the Sons of Pompey were behind him,
The honour'd Cato, and fierce Juba with 'em,
That they might whip him from his whore, and rowze him:
That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances,
Might shake him like an Earth-quake.
Enter Septimius.
Ant. What's this fellow?
Dol. Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes.