Cosm. We hope the Gods have not such rugged hands To snatch yee from us.
King. Cosmo, Damianus, and Anthony; you upon whom
The Vandall State doth leane, for my back's too weake;
I tell you once agen that surly Monarch,
Who treads on all Kings throats, hath sent to me
His proud Embassadours: I have given them Audience
Here in our Chamber Royall. Nor could that move me,
To meete Death face to face, were my great worke
Once perfected in Affrick by my sonne;
I meane that generall sacrifice of Christians,
Whose blood would wash the Temples of our gods
And win them bow downe their immortall eyes
Upon our offerings. Yet, I talke not idly,
Yet, Anthonie, I may; for sleepe, I think,
Is gone out of my kingdome, it is else fled
To th'poore; for sleepe oft takes the harder bed
And leaves the downy pillow of a King.
Cosm. Try, Sir, if Musick can procure you[133] rest.
King. Cosmo, 'tis sinne to spend a thing so precious
On him that cannot weare it. No, no; no Musick;
But if you needs will charme my o're-watcht eyes,
Now growne too monstrous for their lids to close,
If you so long to fill these Musick-roomes
With ravishing sounds indeed; unclaspe that booke,
Turne o're that Monument of Martyrdomes,
Read there how Genzerick has serv'd the gods
And made their Altars drunke with Christians blood,
Whil'st their loath'd bodies flung in funerall piles
Like Incense burnt in Pyramids of fire;
And when their flesh and bones were all consum'd
Their ashes up in whirle-winds flew i'th Ayre
To show that of foure Elements not one had care
Of them, dead or alive. Read, Anthony.
Anth. 'Tis swelld to a faire Volume.
King. Would I liv'd To add a second part too't. Read, and listen: No Vandall ere writ such a Chronicle.
Anth. Five hundred[134] broyl'd to death in Oyle and Lead: Seven hundred flead alive, their Carkasses Throwne to King Genzericks hounds.
King. Ha, ha, brave hunting.
Anth. Upon the great day of Apollo's feast, The fourth Moneth of your Reigne.
King. O give me more, Let me dye fat with laughing.