Beaumont & Fletcher's Works (3 of 10): The Loyal Subject. Beaumont Francis

      The. Captain, your friend's prefer'd, the Princess has her,

      Who, I assure my self, will use her nobly;

      A pretty sweet one 'tis indeed.

      Put. Well bred, Sir,

      I do deliver that upon my credit,

      And of an honest stock.

      The. It seems so, Captain,

      And no doubt will do well.

      Put. Thanks to your care, Sir;

      But tell me Noble Colonel, why this habit

      Of discontent is put on through the Army?

      And why your valiant Father, our great General,

      The hand that taught to strike, the Love that led all;

      Why he, that was the Father of the War,

      He that begot, and bred the Souldier,

      Why he sits shaking of his Arms, like Autumn,

      His Colours folded, and his Drums cas'd up,

      The tongue of War for ever ty'd within us?

      The. It must be so: Captain you are a stranger,

      But of a small time here a Souldier,

      Yet that time shews ye a right good, and great one,

      Else I could tell ye hours are strangely alter'd:

      The young Duke has too many eyes upon him,

      Too many fears 'tis thought too, and to nourish those,

      Maintains too many Instruments.

      Put. Turn their hearts,

      Or turn their heels up, Heaven: 'Tis strange it should be:

      The old Duke lov'd him dearly.

      The. He deserv'd it;

      And were he not my Father, I durst tell ye,

      The memorable hazards he has run through

      Deserv'd of this man too; highly deserv'd too;

      Had they been less, they had been safe Putskie,

      And sooner reach'd regard.

      Put. There you struck sure, Sir.

      The. Did I never tell thee of a vow he made

      Some years before the old Duke dyed?

      Put. I have heard ye

      Speak often of that vow; but how it was,

      Or to what end, I never understood yet.

      The. I'le tell thee then: and then thou wilt find the reason:

      The last great Muster, ('twas before ye serv'd here,

      Before the last Dukes death, whose honour'd bones

      Now rest in peace) this young Prince had the ordering,

      (To Crown his Fathers hopes) of all the Army:

      Who (to be short) put all his power to practise;

      Fashion'd, and drew 'em up: but alas, so poorly,

      So raggedly and loosely, so unsouldier'd,

      The good Duke blush'd, and call'd unto my Father,

      Who then was General: Go, Archas, speedily,

      And chide the Boy, before the Souldiers find him,

      Stand thou between his ignorance and them,

      Fashion their bodies new to thy direction;

      Then draw thou up, and shew the Prince his errours.

      My Sire obey'd, and did so; with all duty

      Inform'd the Prince, and read him all directions:

      This bred distaste, distaste grew up to anger,

      And anger into wild words broke out thus:

      Well, Archas, if I live but to command here,

      To be but Duke once, I shall then remember.

      I shall remember truly, trust me, I shall,

      And by my Fathers hand – the rest his eyes spoke.

      To which my Father answer'd (somewhat mov'd too)

      And with a vow he seal'd it: Royal Sir,

      Since for my faith and fights, your scorn and anger

      Only pursue me; if I live to that day,

      That day so long expected to reward me,

      By his so ever noble hand you swore by,

      And by the hand of Justice, never Arms more

      Shall rib this body in, nor sword hang here, Sir:

      The Conflicts I will do you service then in,

      Shall be repentant prayers: So they parted.

      The time is come; and now ye know the wonder.

      Put. I find a fear too, which begins to tell me,

      The Duke will have but poor and slight defences,

      If his hot humour raign, and not his honour:

      How stand you with him, Sir?

      The. A perdue Captain,

      Full of my Fathers danger.

      P[ut]. He has rais'd a young man,

      They say a slight young man, I know him not,

      For what desert?

      The. Believe it, a brave Gentleman,

      Worth the Dukes respect, a clear sweet Gentleman,

      And of a noble soul: Come let's retire us,

      And wait upon my Father, who within this hour

      You will find an alter'd man.

      Put. I am sorry for't, Sir. [Exeunt.

      Olym. Is't not a handsome Wench?

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