[They sit about the table.
And your worths have deserv'd nobly;
But ingratitude, that should be banish'd
From a prince's breast, is Philip's favourite.
King. [Above.] Philip, traitor! why not king? I am so.
Ant. Patience, good my lord; I'll down.
[Exit.
Mach. It lives too near him:
You, that have ventur'd with expense of blood
And danger of your lives, to rivet him
Unto his seat with peace: you, that in war
He term'd his Atlases, and press'd with praises
Your brawny shoulders; call'd you his Colossuses,
And said your looks frighted tall war
Out of his territories: now in peace [behold]
The issue of your labour. This bad man—
Philip, I mean—made of ingratitude,
Wo' not afford a name, that may distinguish
Your worthy selves from cowards; [while]
Civet cats spotted with rats'-dung,
Or a face, like white broth strew'd o'er with currants
For a stirring caper or itching dance, to please
My lady Vanity, shall be made a smock-knight.
King. [Above.] Villain! must our disgrace mount thee?
Ful. To what tends this?
Aler. What means Count Machiavel?