Cel. It seems so by thy Office: He loves thy use, and when that's ended, hates thee: Thou seemest to me a Souldier.
Ant. Yes, I am one.
Cel. And hast fought for thy Country?
Ant. Many a time.
Cel. May be, commanded too?
Ant. I have done, Lady.
Cel. O wretched man, below the state of pity!
Canst thou forget thou wert begot in honour?
A free Companion for a King? a Souldier?
Whose Nobleness dare feel no want, but Enemies?
Canst thou forget this, and decline so wretchedly,
To eat the Bread of Bawdry, of base Bawdry?
Feed on the scum of Sin? fling thy Sword from thee?
Dishonour to the noble name that nursed thee?
Go, beg diseases: let them be thy Armours,
Thy fights, the flames of Lust, and their foul issues.
Ant. Why then I am a King, and mine own Speaker.
Cel. And I as free as you, mine own Disposer:
There, take your Jewels; let them give them lustres
That have dark Lives and Souls; wear 'em your self, Sir,
You'l seem a Devil else.
Ant. I command ye stay.