_Sce._ Oh, this sounds mangily,
Poorly, and scurvily in a Souldiers mouth:
You had best be troubled with the Tooth-ach too,
For Lovers ever are, and let your Nose drop
That your celestial Beauty may befriend ye;
At these years do you learn to be fantastical?
After so many bloody fields, a Fool?
She brings her Bed along too, she'll lose no time,
Carries her Litter to lye soft, do you see that?
Invites ye like a Gamester: note that impudence,
For shame reflect upon your self, your honour,
Look back into your noble parts, and blush:
Let not the dear sweat of the hot _Pharsalia_,
Mingle with base _Embraces_; am I he
That have receiv'd so many wounds for _Caesar_?
Upon my Target groves of darts still growing?
Have I endur'd all hungers, colds, distresses,
And (as I had been bred that Iron that arm'd me)
Stood out all weathers, now to curse my fortune?
To ban the blood I lost for such a General?
_Caesar_. Offend no more: be gone.
_Sce._ I will, and leave ye,
Leave ye to womens wars, that will proclaim ye:
You'l conquer _Rome_ now, and the Capitol
With Fans, and Looking-glasses, farewel Caesar.
_Cleo._ Now I am private Sir, I dare speak to ye:
But thus low first, for as a God I honour ye.
_Sce._ Lower you'l be anon.
_Caesar_. Away.
_Sce._ And privater,
For that you covet all.
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