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I do believe it well: for Constantine, With many fair and princely qualities That in his clear morn no attention drew, Now, on the brow of dark adversity, Hangs like a rainbow on a surly cloud, And all men look to him. But what avails This growing sentiment of admiration To our good means? Good Turk, where is thy gold?

There, Christian, whom I may not well call good.

That as thou wilt: but Mahomet thy master Shall find me still his faithful agent here. This very night, as I have promis'd to him, The people shall in insurrection rise, Clam'ring to have the city yielded up; And if your narrow caution stint me not In that which rules the storm, it shall be rais'd To the full pitch.

And what is that, Petronius?

More gold. Ay, by thy turban and thy beard! There is a way to make our timid sluggards