Читать книгу Beaumont & Fletchers Works (2 of 10) – the Humourous Lieutenant - Beaumont Francis - Страница 7

Ant. No face of sorrow for this loss, 'twill choak him,

Nor no man miss a friend, I know his nature

So deep imprest with grief, for what he has suffer'd,

That the least adding to it adds to his ruine;

His loss is not so infinite, I hope, Souldier.

Ant. I guess the manner.

Lord. The Prince and't like your Grace.

Ant. You are welcome home, Sir:

Come, no more sorrow, I have heard your fortune,

And I my self have try'd the like: clear up man,

I will not have ye take it thus; if I doubted

Your fear had lost, and that you had turn'd your back to 'em,

Basely besought their mercies—

Antig. I know't Leontius: or if I thought

Neglect of rule, having his counsel with ye,

Or too vain-glorious appetite of Fame,

Your men forgot and scatter'd.

Ant. These being granted;

Why should you think you have done an act so hainous,

That nought but discontent dwells round about ye?

I have lost a Battel.

Leo. I, and fought it hard too.

Ant. With as much means as man—

Leo. Or Devil could urge it.

Ant. Twenty to one of our side now.

Leo. Turn Tables,

Beaten like Dogs again, like Owls, you take it

To heart for flying but a mile before 'em;

And to say the truth, 'twas no flight neither, Sir,

'Twas but a walk, a handsome walk,

I have tumbl'd with this old Body, beaten like a Stock-fish,

And stuck with Arrows, like an arming Quiver,

Blouded and bang'd almost a day before 'em,

And glad I have got off then. Here's a mad Shaver,

He fights his share I am sure, when e'r he comes to't;

Yet I have seen him trip it tithly too,

And cry the Devil take the hindmost ever.

Dem. 'Tis not, this day I fled before the Enemy,

And lost my People, left mine Honour murder'd,

My maiden Honour, never to be ransom'd,

(Which to a noble Soul is too too sensible)

Afflicts me with this sadness; most of these,

Time may turn straight again, experience perfect,

And new Swords cut new ways to nobler Fortunes.

O I have lost—

Ant. As you are mine forget it: I do not think it loss.

Dem. O Sir, forgive me,

I have lost my friends, those worthy Souls bred with me,

I have lost my self, they were the pieces of me:

I have lost all Arts, my Schools are taken from me,

Honour and Arms, no emulation left me:

I liv'd to see these men lost, look'd upon it:

These men that twin'd their loves to mine, their vertues;

O shame of shames! I saw and could not save 'em,

This carries Sulphur in't, this burns, and boils me,

And like a fatal Tomb, bestrides my memory.