Musicke; enter Angel.

Mustre my holy thoughts, and, as I write,
In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.

    (As he is writing an Angel comes and stands before
    him:  soft musick; he astonisht and dazeld.)

This is no common Almes to prisoners;
I never heard such sweetnesse—­O mine eyes! 
I, that am shut from light, have all the light
Which the world sees by; here some heavenly fire
Is throwne about the roome, and burnes so clearely,
Mine eye-bals drop out blasted at the sight.

    (He falls flat on the earth, and whilst a Song is heard
    the Angel writes, and vanishes as it ends.)

        I. SONG.

What are earthly honours But sins glorious banners?  Let not golden gifts delight thee, Let not death nor torments fright thee; From thy place thy Captaine gives thee When thou faintest he relieves thee.  Hearke, how the Larke Is to the Morning singing; Harke how the Bells are ringing.  It is for joy that thou to Heaven art flying:  This is not life, true life is got by dying.

Eugen.  The light and sound are vanisht, but my feare Sticks still upon my forehead:  what’s written here? (Reads.)

    Goe, and the bold Physitian play;
    But touch the King and drive away
    The paine he feeles; but first assay
    To free the Christians:  if the King pay
    Thy service ill, expect a day
    When for reward thou shalt not stay.

All writ in golden Letters and cut so even
As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven
To print this Paper.

    Enter Epidophorus.

Epi.  Come, you must to the King.

Eugen.  I am so laden with Irons I scarce can goe.

Epi.  Wyer-whips shall drive you, The King is counsell’d for his health to bath him In the warme blood of Christians; and you, I thinke, Must give him ease.

Eugen.  Willingly; my fetters Hang now, methinks, like feathers at my heeles.  On, any whither; I can runne, sir.

Epi.  Can you? not very farre, I feare.

Eugen.  No windes my Faith shake, nor rock[s] split in sunder:  The poore ship’s tost here, my strong Anchor’s yonder.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 3.)

Enter Bellizarius and Hubert.

Hub.  My Lord?

Belliz.  Ha!

Hub.  Affraid in a close room where no foe comes
Unlesse it be a Weezle or a Rat
(And those besiege your Larder or your Pantry),
Whom the arm’d Foe never frighted in the field?

Belliz.  ’Tis true, my Lord, there danger was a safety; here
To be secure I thinke most dangerous. 
Or what could[157] famine, wounds or all th’extreames
That still attend a Souldiers actions
Could not destroy, one sillable from a Kings breath
Can thus, thus easily win.