Ach. He never smil’d, I noted, at the pleasures, But fixt his constant eyes upon the treasure; I do not think his ears had so much leisure After the wealth appear’d, to hear the Musique? Most sure he has not slept since, his mind’s troubled With objects that would make their own still labour.
Pho. Your Sister he ne’re
gaz’d on: that’s a main note,
The prime beauty of the world had no power over him.
Ach. Where was his mind the whilst?
Pho. Where was your carefulness To shew an armed thief the way to rob ye? Nay, would you give him this, ’twill excite him To seek the rest. Ambition feels no gift, Nor knows no bounds, indeed ye have done most weakly.
Ptol. Can I be too kind to my noble friend?
Pho. To be unkind unto your noble self, but savours Of indiscretion, and your friend has found it. Had ye been train’d up in the wants and miseries A souldier marches through, and known his temperance In offer’d courtesies, you would have made A wiser Master of your own, and stronger.
Ptol. Why, should I give him all,
he would return it:
’Tis more to him, to make Kings.
Pho. Pray be wiser, And trust not with your lost wealth, your lov’d liberty. To be a King still at your own discretion Is like a King; to be at his, a vassail. Now take good counsel, or no more take to ye The freedom of a Prince.
Achil. ’Twill be too late else: For, since the Masque, he sent three of his Captains (Ambitious as himself) to view again The glory of your wealth.
Pho. The next himself comes,
Not staying for your courtesie, and takes it.
Ptol. What counsel, my Achoreus?
Ach. I’le goe pray Sir,
(For that is best counsel now) the gods may help ye. [Ex.
Pho. I found ye out a way but ’twas
A most secure way: whither will ye flye now?
Achil. For when your wealth is gone, your power must follow.
Pho. And that diminisht also, what’s
your life worth?
Who would regard it?
Ptol. You say true.
Achil. What eye Will look upon King Ptolomy? if they do look, It must be in scorn: For a poor King is a monster; What ear remember ye? ’twill be then a courtesie (A noble one) to take your life too from ye: But if reserv’d, you stand to fill a victory, As who knows Conquerours minds? though outwardly They bear fair streams. O Sir, does this not shake ye? If to be honyed on to these afflictions—
Ptol. I never will: I was a Fool.