Turn'd out of doores and baffled! Egre. We share with you
In the affront. Cow. Yet beare it not like you
With such dejection. Eust. My Coach and horses made
The ransome of our cowardize. Lew. Cow. Pish, that's nothing,
Tis Damnum reparabile, and soone recover'd.
Egre. It is but feeding a suitor with false hopes, And after squeeze him with a dozen of oathes. You are new rigg'd, and this no more remembred.
Eust. And does the Court that should be the example
And Oracle of the Kingdome, read to us
No other doctrine! Egre. None that thrives so well
As that, within my knowledge. Cow. Flatterie rubbes out,
But since great men learne to admire themselves,
Tis something crest-falne. Egre. To be of no Religion,
Argues a subtle moral understanding,
And it is often cherisht. Eust. Pietie then,
And valour, nor to doe nor suffer wrong,
Are they no vertues? Egre. Rather vices, Eustace;
Fighting! What's fighting? It may be in fashion,
Among Provant swords, and buffe-jerkin men:
But w'us that swim in choice of silkes and Tissues;
Though in defence of that word reputation,
Which is indeed a kind of glorious nothing,
To lose a dram of blood must needs appeare
As coarse as to be honest. Eust. And all this
You seriously beleeve. Cow. It is a faith,
That we will die in, since from the black guard
To the grim Sir in office, there are few
Hold other Tenets. Eust. [N]ow my eyes are open,
And I behold a strong necessity
That keepes me knave and coward. Cow. Y'are the wiser.
Eust. Nor can I change my copy, if I purpose To be of your society. Egre. By no meanes.
Eust. Honour is nothing with you? Cow. A meere bubble, For what's growne common, is no more regarded.
Eust. My sword forc'd from me too, and still detain'd, You think's no blemish. Egre. Get me a battoone? Tis twenty times more courtlike, and less trouble.
Eust. And yet you weare a sword. Cow. Yes, and a good one, A Millan hilt, and a Damasco blade, For ornament, no use the Court allowes it.
Eust. Wil't not fight of it selfe? Cow. I nere tri'd this,
Yet I have worne as faire as any man,
I'me sure I've made my Cutler rich, and paid
For several weapons, Turkish and Toledo's,
Two thousand Crownes, and yet could never light
Upon a fighting one. Eust. Ile borrow this,
I like it well. Cow. Tis at your service Sir,
A lath in a velvet scabbard will serve my turne.
Eust. And now I have it leave me; y'are infectious,
The plague and leprosie of your baseness spreading
On all that doe come neere you; such as you
Render the Throne of Majesty, the Court
Suspected and contemptible, you are Scarabee's
That batten in her dung, and have no pallats
To taste her curious viands, and like Owles
Can onely see her night deformities,
But with the glorious splendor of her beauties
You are struck blinde as Moles, that undermine
The sumptuous building that allow'd you shelter,
You stick like running ulcers on her face,
And taint the pureness of her native candor,
And being bad servants, cause your masters goodness
To be disputed of; you make the Court
That is the abstract of all Academies,
To teach and practice noble undertakings,
(Where courage sits triumphant crown'd with Lawrel,
And wisedome loaded with the weight of honour)
A Schoole of vices. Egre. What sudden rapture's this?
Eust. A heavenly one that raising me from sloth and ignorance,
(In which your conversation long hath charm'd me)
Carries me up into the aire of action,
And knowledge of my selfe; even now I feele
But pleading onely in the Courts defence,
(Though far[r]e short of her merits and bright lustre)
A happy alteration, and full strength
To stand her Champion against all the world,
That throw aspersions on her. Cow. Sure hee'l beat us,
I see it in his eyes. Egre. A second Charles;
Pray look not Sir so furiously. Eust. Recant
What you have said, ye Mungrils, and licke up
The vomit you have cast upon the Court,
Where you unworthily have had warmth and breeding,
And sweare that you like Spiders, have made poyson
Of that which was a saving antidote.