Cyprus.
Why, Signior Basilisco, is it a she-sword?
Basilisco.
Ay, and so are all blades with me: behold my instance;
Perdè, each female is the weaker vessel,
And the vigour of this arm infringeth
The temper of any blade, quoth my assertion,
And thereby gather that this blade,
Being approved weaker than this limb,
May very well bear a feminine epitheton.
Cyprus.
'Tis well prov'd; but what's the word that glories your country?
Basilisco.
Sooth to say, the earth is my country,
As the air to the fowl or the marine moisture
To the red-gill'd fish: I repute myself no coward:
For humility shall mount: I keep no table
To character my forepassed conflicts.
As I remember, there happened a sore drought
In some part of Belgia, that the juicy grass
Was sear'd with the Sun-God's element:
I held it policy to put the men-children
Of that climate to the sword,
That the mother's tears might relieve the parched earth.
The men died, the women wept, and the grass grew;
Else had my Friesland horse perished,
Whose loss would have more grieved me
Than the ruin of that whole country.
Upon a time in Ireland I fought
On horseback with an hundred Kerns
From Titan's eastern uprise to his western downfal:
Insomuch that my steed began to faint:
I, conjecturing the cause to be want of water, dismounted,
In which place there was no such element;
Enraged therefore, [I] with this scimitar,
All on foot, like an Herculean offspring,
Endured some three or four hours' combat,
In which process my body distill'd such dewy showers of sweat,
That from the warlike wrinkles of my front
My palfrey cool'd his thirst.
My mercy in conquest is equal with my manhood in fight,
The tear of an infant hath been the ransom of a conquer'd city;
Whereby I purchased the surname of Pity's Adamant.
Rough words blow my choler,
As the wind doth Mulciber's workhouse:
I have no word, because no country:
Each place is my habitation;
Therefore each country's word mine to pronounce.
Princes, what would you? I have seen much, heard more,
But done most: to be brief, he that will try me,
Let him waft me with his arm; I am his for some five lances:
Although it go against my stars to jest,
Yet to gratulate this benign prince,
I will suppress my condition.
Philippo.
He is beholding to you greatly, sir:
Mount, ye brave lordings, forwards to the tilt;
Myself will censure of your chivalry,
And with impartial eyes behold your deeds:
Forward, brave ladies, place you to behold
The fair demeanour of these warlike knights.