_Phi_. I'm ruin'd.-- [_Aside_.
_King_. _Alcippus_, with her Father's leave, she's thine.
_Org_. Sir, 'tis my Aim and Honour.
_Phi. Alcippus_, is't a time to think of Weddings, When the disorder'd Troops require your Presence?
You must to the Camp to morrow.
_Alcip_. You need not urge that Duty to me, Sir.
_King_. A Day or two will finish that affair, And then we'll consummate the happy Day, When all the Court shall celebrate your Joy.
[_They all go out, but_ Alcan. Pisa, _and_ Fal.
_Pis. Falatio_, you are a swift Horseman; I believe you have a Mistress at Court, You made such haste this Morning.
_Fal_. By _Jove_, _Pisaro_, I was weary enough of the Campaign; and till I had lost sight of it, I clapt on all my Spurs-- But what ails _Alcander_?
_Pis_. What, displeas'd?
_Alcan_. It may be so, what then?
_Pis_. Then thou mayst be pleas'd again.
_Alcan_. Why the Devil should I rejoice?
Because I see another rais'd above me; Let him be great, and damn'd with all his Greatness.
_Pis_. Thou mean'st _Alcippus_, who I think merits it.
_Alcan_. What is't that thou cal'st Merit?
He fought, it's true, so did you, and I, And gain'd as much as he o'th' Victory, But he in the Triumphal Chariot rode, Whilst we ador'd him like a Demi-God.
He with the Prince an equal welcome found, Was with like Garlands, though less Merit, crown'd.
_Fal_. He's in the right for that, by _Jove_.
_Pis_. Nay, now you wrong him.
_Alcan_. What's he I should not speak my sense of him?
_Pis_. He is our General.
_Alcan_. What then?
What is't that he can do, which I'll decline?
Has he more Youth, more Strength, or Arms than I?
Can he preserve himself i'th' heat of the Battle?
Or can he singly fight a whole Brigade?
Can he receive a thousand Wounds, and live?
_Fal_. Can you or he do so?
_Alcan_. I do not say I can; but tell me then, Where be the Virtues of this mighty Man, That he should brave it over all the rest?
_Pis_. Faith, he has many Virtues, and much Courage; And merits it as well as you or I: _Orgulius_ was grown old.
_Alcan_. What then?
_Pis_. Why then he was unfit for't, But that he had a Daughter that was young.
_Alcan_. Yes, he might have lain by, Like rusty Armour, else, Had she not brought him into play again; The Devil take her for't.
_Fal_. By _Jove_, he's dissatisfy'd with every thing.
_Alcan_. She has undone my Prince, And he has most unluckily disarm'd himself, And put the Sword into his Rival's hand, Who will return it to his grateful Bosom.
_Phi_. Why, you believe _Alcippus_ honest--
_Alcan_. Yes, in your sense, _Pisaro_, But do not like the last demand he made; 'Twas but an ill return upon his Prince, To beg his Mistress, rather challeng'd her.
_Pis_. His ignorance that she was so, may excuse him.
_Alcan_. The Devil 'twill, dost think he knew it not?
_Pis. Orgulius_ still design'd him for _Erminia_; And if the Prince be disoblig'd from this, He only ought to take it ill from him.
_Alcan_. Too much, _Pisaro_, you excuse his Pride, But 'tis the Office of a Friend to do so.
_Pis_. 'Tis true, I am not ignorant of this, That he despises other Recompence For all his Services, but fair _Erminia_, I know 'tis long since he resign'd his Heart, Without so much as telling her she conquer'd; And yet she knew he lov'd; whilst she, ingrate, Repay'd his Passion only with her Scorn.
_Alcan_. In loving him, she'd more ingrateful prove To her first Vows, to Reason, and to Love.
_Pis_. For that, _Alcander_, you know more than I.
_Fal_. Why sure _Aminta_ will instruct her better, She's as inconstant as the Seas and Winds, Which ne'er are calm but to betray Adventurers.
_Alcan_. How came you by that knowledg, Sir?
_Fal_. What a Pox makes him ask me that question now? [_Aside_.
_Pis_. Prithee, _Alcander_, now we talk of her, How go the Amours 'twixt you and my wild Sister?
Can you speak yet, or do you tell your tale With Eyes and Sighs, as you were wont to do?
_Alcan_. Faith, much at that old rate, _Pisaro_, I yet have no incouragement from her To make my Court in any other language.
_Pis_. You'll bring her to't, she must be overcome, And you're the fittest for her fickle Humour.
_Alcan_. Pox on't, this Change will spoil our making Love, We must be sad, and follow the Court-Mode: My life on't, you'll see desperate doings here; The Eagle will not part so with his Prey; _Erminia_ was not gain'd so easily, To be resign'd so tamely.--But come, my Lord, This will not satisfy our appetites, Let's in to Dinner, and when warm with Wine, We shall be fitter for a new Design.
[_They go out_. Fal. _stays_.