_Orestes_ bloody hands fell on his Mother,
Yet, at the holy altar he was pardon'd.
_Ach._ _Orestes_ out of madness did his murther,
And therefore he found grace: thou (worst of all men)
Out of cold blood, and hope of gain, base lucre,
Slew'st thine own Feeder: come not near the altar,
Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the Sacrifice,
Thou art markt for shame eternal. [_Exit._
_Sep._ Look all on me,
And let me be a story left to time
Of blood and Infamy, how base and ugly
Ingratitude appears, with all her profits,
How monstrous my hop'd grace, at Court! good souldiers
Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound
Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodness:
To be valiant, old, and honest, O what blessedness--
_1 Sold._ Dost thou want any thing?
_Sep._ Nothing but your prayers.
_2 Sol._ Be thus, and let the blind Priest do his worst,
We have gods as well as they, and they will hear us.
_3 Sol._ Come, cry no more: thou hast wep't out twenty _Pompeys_.
_Enter_ Photinus, Achillas.
_Pho._ So penitent?
_Achil._ It seems so.
_Pho._ Yet for all this
We must employ him.
_1 Sol._ These are the arm'd Souldier leaders:
Away: and let's toth' Fort, we shall be snapt else. [_Exeunt._
_Pho._ How now? why thus? what cause of this dejection?
_Achil.
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