John Fletcher - Beaumont & Fletcher's Works (3 of 10) - The Loyal Subject

Al. With all my duty. [ Exeunt.

Theod. This is the heaviest march we e're trod Captain.

Puts. This was not wont to be: these honour'd pieces
The fierie god of war himself would smile at,
Buckl'd upon that body, were not wont thus,
Like Reliques to be offer'd to long rust,
And heavy-ey'd oblivion brood upon 'em.

Arch. There set 'em down: and glorious war farewel;
Thou child of honour and ambitious thoughts,
Begot in bloud, and nurs'd with Kingdomes ruines;
Thou golden danger, courted by thy followers
Through fires and famins, for one title from thee —
Prodigal man-kind spending all his fortunes;
A long farewel I give thee: Noble Arms,
You ribs for mighty minds, you Iron houses,
Made to defie the thunder-claps of Fortune,
Rust and consuming time must now dwell with ye:
And thou good Sword that knewst the way to conquest,
Upon whose fatal edge despair and death dwelt,
That when I shook thee thus, fore-shew'd destruction,
Sleep now from bloud, and grace my Monument:
Farewel my Eagle; when thou flew'st, whole Armies
Have stoopt below thee: At Passage I have seen thee,
Ruffle the Tartars , as they fled thy furie;
And bang 'em up together, as a Tassel,
Upon the streach, a flock of fearfull Pigeons.
I yet remember when the Volga curl'd,
The aged Volga , when he heav'd his head up,
And rais'd his waters high, to see the ruins;
The ruines our Swords made, the bloudy ruins,
Then flew this Bird of honour bravely, Gentlemen;
But these must be forgotten: so must these too,
And all that tend to Arms, by me for ever.
Take 'em you holy men; my Vow take with 'em,
Never to wear 'em more: Trophies I give 'em,
And sacred Rites of war to adorn the Temple:
There let 'em hang, to tell the world their master
Is now Devotions Souldier, fit for prayer.
Why do ye hang your heads? why look you sad friends?
I am not dying yet.

Theod. Ye are indeed to us Sir.

Puts. Dead to our fortunes, General.

Arch. You'l find a better,
A greater, and a stronger man to lead ye,
And to a stronger fortune: I am old, friends,
Time, and the wars together make me stoop, Gentle[men],
Stoop to my grave: my mind unfurnish'd too,
Emptie and weak as I am: my poor body,
Able for nothing now but contemplation,
And that will be a task too to a Souldier:
Yet had they but encourag'd me, or thought well
Of what I have done, I think I should have ventur'd
For one knock more, I should have made a shift yet
To have broke one staff more handsomly, and have died
Like a good fellow, and an honest Souldier,
In the head of ye all, with my Sword in my hand,
And so have made an end of all with credit.

Theod. Well, there will come an hour, when all these injuries,
These secure slights —

Ar. Ha! no more of that sirrah,
Not one word more of that I charge ye.

Theod. I must speak Sir.
And may that tongue forget to sound your service,
That's dumb to your abuses.

Ar. Understand fool,
That voluntary I sit down.

Theod. You are forced, Sir,
Forced for your safety: I too well remember
The time and cause, and I may live to curse 'em:
You made this Vow, and whose unnobleness,
Indeed forgetfulness of good —

Ar. No more,
As thou art mine no more.

The. Whose doubts and envies —
But the Devil will have his due.

Puts. Good gentle Colonel.
The. And though disgraces, and contempt of Honour
Reign now, the Wheel must turn again.

Ar. Peace Sirrah,
Your tongue's too saucy: do you stare upon me?
Down with that heart, down suddenly, down with it,
Down with that disobedience; tye that tongue up.

Theod. Tongue?

Ar. Do not provoke me to forget my Vow, Sirrah.
And draw that fatal Sword again in anger.

Puts. For Heavens sake, Colonel.

Ar. Do not let me doubt
Whose Son thou art, because thou canst not suffer:
Do not play with mine anger; if thou dost,
By all the Loyalty my heart holds —

Theod. I have done, Sir,
Pray pardon me.

Ar. I pray be worthy of it:
Beshrew your heart, you have vext me.

The. I am sorry, Sir.

Ar. Go to, no more of this: be true and honest,
I know ye are man enough, mould it to just ends,
And let not my disgraces, then I am miserable,
When I have nothing left me but thy angers.

Puts. And't please ye, Sir, the Duke.

Duk. Now, what's all this?
The meaning of this ceremonious Emblem?

Ar. Your Grace should first remember —

Boros. There's his Nature.

Duk. I do, and shall remember still that injury,
That at the Muster, where it pleas'd your Greatness
To laugh at my poor Souldiership, to scorn it;
And more to make me seem ridiculous,
Took from my hands my charge.

Bur. O think not so, Sir.

Duk. And in my Fathers sight.
Ar. Heaven be my witness,
I did no more, (and that with modesty,
With Love and Faith to you) than was my warrant,
And from your Father seal'd: nor durst that rudeness,
And impudence of scorn fall from my 'haviour,
I ever yet knew duty.

Du. We shall teach ye,
I well remember too, upon some words I told ye,
Then at that time, some angry words ye answer'd,
If ever I were Duke, you were no Souldier.
You have kept your word, and so it shall be to you,
From henceforth I dismiss you; take your ease, Sir.

Ar. I humbly thank your Grace; this wasted Body,
Beaten and bruis'd with Arms, dry'd up with troubles,
Is good for nothing else but quiet, now Sir,
And holy Prayers; in which, when I forget
To thank Heaven for all your bounteous favours,
May that be deaf, and my Petitions perish.

Boros. What a smooth humble Cloak he has cas'd his pride in!
And how he has pull'd his Claws in! there's no trusting —

Bur. Speak for the best.

Bor. Believe I shall do ever.

Du. To make ye understand, we feel not yet
Such dearth of Valour, and Experience,
Such a declining Age of doing Spirits,
That all should be confin'd within your excellence,
And you, or none be honour'd, take Boroskie ,
The place he has commanded, lead the Souldier;
A little time will bring thee to his honour,
Which has been nothing but the Worlds opinion,
The Souldiers fondness, and a little fortune,
Which I believe his Sword had the least share in.