Part 19 (1/2)

_Capt_. He would have weapons would he? give him a Broad-side my brave boyes with your pikes, branch me his skin in Flowers like a Satin, and between every Flower a mortal cut, your Royalty shall ravel, jag him Gentlemen, I'le have him cut to the kell, then down the seames, oh for a whip To make him Galoone-Laces, I'le have a Coach-whip.

_Pha_. O spare me Gentlemen.

_Cap_. Hold, hold, the man begins to fear and know himself, He shall for this time only be seal'd up With a Feather through his nose, that he may only see Heaven, and think whither he's going, Nay beyond-Sea Sir, we will proclaim you, you would be King Thou tender Heir apparent to a Church-Ale, Thou sleight Prince of single Sarcenet; Thou Royal Ring-tail, fit to fly at nothing But poor mens Poultry, and have every Boy Beat thee from that too with his Bread and b.u.t.ter.

_Pha_. G.o.ds keep me from these h.e.l.l-hounds.

_2 Cit_. Shall's geld him Captain?

_Cap_. No, you shall spare his dowcets my dear Donsels, As you respect the Ladies let them flourish; The curses of a longing woman kill as speedy as a Plague, Boys.

_1 Cit_. I'le have a Leg that's certain.

_2 Cit_. I'le have an Arm.

_3 Cit_. I'le have his Nose, and at mine own charge build a Colledge, and clap't upon the Gate.

_4 Cit_. I'le have his little Gut to string a Kit with, For certainly a Royal Gut will sound like silver.

_Pha_. Would they were in thy belly, and I past my pain once.

_5 Cit_. Good Captain let me have his Liver to feed Ferrets.

_Cap_. Who will have parcels else? speak.

_Pha_. Good G.o.ds consider me, I shall be tortur'd.

_1 Cit_. Captain, I'le give you the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of your hand-sword, and let me have his Skin to make false Scabbards.

_2_. He had no horns Sir had he?

_Cap_. No Sir, he's a Pollard, what would'st thou do with horns?

_Cit_. O if he had, I would have made rare Hafts and Whistles of 'em, but his s.h.i.+n-bones if they be sound shall serve me.

[_Enter_ Philaster.

_All_. Long live _Philaster_, the brave Prince _Philaster_.

_Phi_. I thank you Gentlemen, but why are these Rude weapons brought abroad, to teach your hands Uncivil Trades?

_Cap_. My Royal Rosiclear, We are thy Mirmidons, thy Guard, thy Rorers, And when thy n.o.ble body is in durance, Thus do we clap our musty Murrions on, And trace the streets in terrour: Is it peace Thou _Mars_ of men? Is the King sociable, And bids thee live? Art thou above thy foemen, And free as _Phoebus_? Speak, if not, this stand Of Royal blood shall be abroach, atilt, and run Even to the lees of honour.

_Phi_. Hold and be satisfied, I am my self Free as my thoughts are, by the G.o.ds I am.

_Cap_. Art thou the dainty darling of the King?

Art thou the _Hylas_ to our _Hercules_?

Do the Lords bow, and the regarded scarlets, Kiss their Gumd-gols, and cry, we are your servants?

Is the Court Navigable, and the presence struck With Flags of friends.h.i.+p? if not, we are thy Castle And this man sleeps.

_Phi_. I am what I desire to be, your friend, I am what I was born to be, your Prince.