RAYMOND

Stand. Bid the Drum cease, while we embrace our love: Come my Philippa, Like the twins of war, Laced in our freely Cornets, we're become The envy of those brain begotten gods, Mouldy Antiquity lifted to Heaven: Thus we exchange our breath; kisses. Restore back mine—So, go pitch our tent, we'll Have a Combat i'th field of love, with thee Philippa, ere we meet the foe: thou art A friendly enemy. How say my Lords, Does not my Love appear, Like to the issue of the brain of Jove, Governess of Arms and Arts, Minerva? Or a selected beauty from a troop of Amazons. Hast thou no skill in Magic, that thou hits So just upon my thoughts, thy tongue is tipped Like Nature's miracle; that draws the steel With unresisted violence: I can not keep A secret to my self, but thy prevailing Rhetoric ravishes and leaves my breast Like to and empty Casket, that once was blessed With keeping of a Jewel I durst, not trust the Air with, 'twas so precious: pray be careful. No, were you a woman made of such course ingre diances as the common, which in our triveall phrase we call mere women; I would not trust thee with a Cause so weighty, that the discovery did endanger this, this hair; that when it's gone a Linxe cannot miss it: but you are—I want expressions, it's not common words can speak you truly, you are more than woman. I must be gone, and post a messenger, France must supply what wants to make thee great; And Army my Philippa, which these people Snoring in pride of their last victory, Do not so much as dream on? Nor shall, till they be forced to yield their voices At our election; which will be ere long. Some happy genius does attend my wishes, Or spirit Like a Page conducts unto me The Ministers, whose sweet must sent me easy. Come hither French man, canst thou rule thy tongue? Art not too much a woman? Or canst thou be Like a perverse on, profess dogednes? Be as a dead man dumb, briefly be this: A friend to France, and with a silent speed, Post to our now approaching armed friends: Tell them that Raimond ever the hasty Sand Of a short hour be spent, shall be impaled, And on his brow a Deputy for France, Support a golden wreathe of Kingly cares: Bid they make hast to pluck my partner down Into his Grave; be gone, as thou nursest In thy breast thoughts that do thirst For nobleness: be secret and thou'rt made; If not, thou'rt nothing. Mark, it's Raimond says it: And as I live, I breath not, if my deeds Appear not in a horror above my words. Do't, and be more then common in our favour; Here take this Ring for thy more credit: Farewell, be quick and secret. Exeunt. Not well, prithee retire. If not weel force you to't: Speak French man, are our forces i'th City? Would, from whence this sudden Mischief? Did you not see a hand armed with the fatal Ruin of my life. Wast thy plot Machvile? go laughing to thy grave. Come hither French man, make a dying man Bound to thy love; go to Philippa, Sickly as she is bring her unto me; Or my flying soul will not depart in peace else: Prithee make hast: yet stay, I have not breath To pay thy labour. Shrink ye, you tween-borne Atlasses, that bear This my near ruined world; have you not strength To bear a curse, whose breath may taint the air, That this Globe may feel a universal plague. No, yet bear up, till with a vengeful eye I outstare day, and from the dogged sky Pluck my impartial Star: Oh, my blood Is frozen in my veins—farewell revenge—me —die. What means this capering Echo? Or from whence did this so lively Counterfeit Of Thunder, break out to liberty? It cannot be, their voice, should outroar Jove ; Our Army Like a Bassiliske, has struck Death through their eyes; our number Like a wind, Broke from the Icy prison of the North, Has froze the Portals to their shivering hearts; They scarce have breath enough to speake't: A shout within. They live. It's from our jocund Fleet, my Genius prompts me; They have already ploughed the unruly seas, And with their breats, proof against the battering Waves dashed the big billows into angry froth, And spite of the contentious full mouthed gods Of Sea and wind, have reached the City frontiers, And begirt her Navigable Skirts. Again: it's so. again within. What speaks thy troubled front? Speak Prodigy, or on my sword thou fallest. Villain thou liest; 'Twere madness to believe thee. Foolish Spain, may Like those Giants, that Heaped hill on hill, mountain on mountain, To pluck Jove from heaven, who with A hand of vengeance flung they down beneath The centure, and those Cloud contemning Mounts, Heaved by the strength of their ambitious Arms, Became their Monuments: so Spain's rash Folly, from this arm of mine, shall find their Graves amongst the rubbish of their Ruined Cities. Enter a second soldier. What another! thy hasty news? Run to my Tent, fetch my Philippa: Slave why movest thou not? Shall I send thy coward soul down the strikes him. Vaults of Horror: fly Villain, or thou diest. See my Phillipa, her rich colour's fled and Like that foul The furrow fronted Fates have made and Anvil To forge diseases on, she's lost her self With her fled beauty; yet pale as she stands, She adds more glory to our churlish foe, Than bashful Tycan to the Eastern world. Spaniards, she is a Conquest; Room, When her two neckt Eagles, awed the world Would have swum through their own blood to purchase: Nor must you enjoy that jemme, the superstitious gods Would quarrel for, but through my heart. Courage brave friends, they're valiant that can fly I'th mouth of danger; it's they win, though die. Speak, my Philippa, what untutored slave Durst lay a rugged have upon thy softness? What pains thou takest to praise Thine enemy. A common Soldier owner of a strength worthy Such praise? Dares he cope with the French General single? Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay, Ceptivity's infection. Not till you conquer me: which if my arm Be not by Witchcraft robbed of his late strength, Shall spin your labour to and ample length. Blessed occasion: lets on they. The French whisper.