Beaumont & Fletchers Works (2 of 10) – the Humourous Lieutenant. Beaumont Francis

      Leo. Will ye lose all?

      For me to be forgotten, to be hated,

      Nay never to have been a man, is nothing,

      So you, and those we have preserv'd from slaughter

      Come safely off.

      Leo. You must not: I shall tell you then,

      And tell you true, that man's unfit to govern,

      That cannot guide himself: you lead an Army?

      That have not so much manly suff'rance left ye,

      To bear a loss?

      Leo. To prevent a Madman.

      None but your Fathers Son, durst call me so,

      'Death if he did—Must I be scandal'd by ye,

      That hedg'd in all the helps I had to save ye?

      That, where there was a valiant weapon stirring,

      Both search'd it out, and singl'd it, unedg'd it,

      For fear it should bite you, am I a coward?

      Go, get ye up, and tell 'em ye are the Kings Son;

      Hang all your Ladys favours on your Crest,

      And let them fight their shares; spur to destruction,

      You cannot miss the way: be bravely desperate,

      And your young friends before ye, that lost this battel,

      Your honourable friends, that knew no order,

      Cry out, Antigonus, the old Antigonus,

      The wise and fortunate Antigonus,

      The great, the valiant, and the fear'd Antigonus,

      Has sent a desperate son, without discretion

      To bury in an hour his age of honour.

      Dem. I am ashamed.

      Leo. 'Tis ten to one, I die with ye:

      The coward will not long be after ye;

      I scorn to say I saw you fall, sigh for ye,

      And tell a whining tale, some ten years after

      To boyes and girles in an old chimney corner,

      Of what a Prince we had, how bravely spirited;

      How young and fair he fell: we'l all go with ye,

      And ye shall see us all, like sacrifices

      In our best trim, fill up the mouth of ruine.

      Will this faith satisfie your folly? can this show ye

      'Tis not to die we fear, but to die poorly,

      To fall, forgotten, in a multitude?

      If you will needs tempt fortune now she has held ye,

      Held ye from sinking up.

      Leo. Ye are too tender;

      Fortune has hours of loss, and hours of honour,

      And the most valiant feel them both: take comfort,

      The next is ours, I have a soul descries it:

      The angry bull never goes back for breath

      But when he means to arm his fury double.

      Let this day set, but not the memorie,

      And we shall find a time: How now Lieutenant?

      Lieu. I am pepper'd,

      I was i'th' midst of all: and bang'd of all hands:

      They made an anvile of my head, it rings yet;

      Never so thresh'd: do you call this fame? I have fam'd it;

      I have got immortal fame, but I'le no more on't;

      I'le no such scratching Saint to serve hereafter;

      O' my conscience I was kill'd above twenty times,

      And yet I know not what a Devil's in't,

      I crawled away, and lived again still; I am hurt plaguily,

      But now I have nothing near so much pain Colonel,

      They have sliced me for that maladie.

      Lie. I am glad you are here: but they are all i'th' pound sir,

      They'l never ride o're other mens corn again, I take it,

      Such frisking, and such flaunting with their feathers,

      And such careering with their Mistres favours;

      And here must he be pricking out for honour,

      And there got he a knock, and down goes pilgarlick,

      Commends his soul to his she-saint, and Exit.

      Another spurs in there, cryes make room villains,

      I am a Lord, scarce spoken, but with reverence

      A Rascal takes him o're the face, and fells him;

      There lyes the Lord, the Lord be with him.

      Lieu. No, plague take him,

      He'l kiss our tails as soon; he looks upon us,

      As if he would say, if ye will turn again, friends,

      We will belabor you a little better,

      And beat a little more care into your coxcombs.

      Now shall we have damnable Ballads out against us,

      Most wicked madrigals: and ten to one, Colonel,

      Sung to such lowsie, lamentable tunes.

      Leo.