Ant. Command, I prythee, all[16]
This little world I'm master of contains,
And be assur'd 'tis granted; I have a life,
I owe to death; and in my country's cause I should——
Ful. Good sir, no more,
This ungrateful land owes you too much already.
Aler. And you still bind it in stronger bonds.
Pan. Your noble deeds that, like to thoughts, outstrip
The fleeting clouds, dash all our hopes of payment:
We are poor, but in unprofitable thanks;
Nay, that cannot rehearse enough your merit.
Ant. I dare not hear this; pardon, bashful ears,
For suffering such a scarlet to o'erspread
Your burning portals.
Gentlemen, your discourses taste of court,
They have a relish of known flattery;
I must deny to understand their folly:
Your pardon, I must leave you:
Modesty commands.
Ful. Your honour's vassals.
Ant. O good colonel, be more a soldier,
Leave compliments for those that live at ease,
To stuff their table-books; and o'er a board,
Made gaudy with some pageant, beside custards,
Whose quaking strikes a fear into the eaters,
Dispute 'em in a fashionable method.
A soldier's language should be (as his calling)
Rough, to declare he is a man of fire.
Farewell without the straining of a sinew,
No superstitious cringe! adieu!
[Exit.
Aler. Is't not a hopeful lord?
Nature to him has chain'd the people's hearts;
Each to his saint offers a form of prayer
For young Antonio.