_Enter_ Photinus, _and_ Septimius.
_Ach._ No more of him,
He is not worth our thoughts: a Fugitive
From _Pompeys_ army: and now in a danger
When he should use his service.
_Achil._ See how he hangs
On great _Photinus_ Ear.
_Sep._ Hell, and the furies,
And all the plagues of darkness light upon me:
You are my god on earth: and let me have
Your favour here, fall what can fall hereafter.
_Pho._ Thou art believ'd: dost thou want mony?
_Sep._ No Sir.
_Pho._ Or hast thou any suite? these ever follow
Thy vehement protestations.
_Sep._ You much wrong me;
How can I want, when your beams shine upon me,
Unless employment to express my zeal
To do your greatness service? do but think
A deed so dark, the Sun would blush to look on,
For which Man-kind would curse me, and arm all
The powers above, and those below against me:
Command me, I will on.
_Pho._ When I have use,
I'le put you to the test.
_Sep._ May it be speedy,
And something worth my danger: you are cold,
And know not your own powers: this brow was fashion'd
To wear a Kingly wreath, and your grave judgment,
Given to dispose of monarchies, not to govern
A childs affairs, the peoples eye's upon you,
The Souldier courts you: will you wear a garment
Of sordid loyalty when 'tis out of fashion?
_Pho.
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