Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/239



Bren. I say, the Court is but a narrow circuit,

Though something elevate above the common;

A kind of ants' nest in the great wild field,

O'ercharg'd with multitudes of quick inhabitants

Who still

Are miserably busied to get in

What the loose foot of prodigality

As fast does throw abroad.

Dor. Good!

A most eternal place of low affronts,

And then as low submissions.

Bren. Right.

High cowards in revenges 'mongst themselves,

And only valiant when they mischief others.

Dor. Stars that would have no names,

But for the ills they threaten in conjunction.

Bren. A race of shallow and unskilful pilots,

Which do misguide the ship even in the calm,

And in great storms serve but as weight to sink it.

More, prithee, more: [alarum within] 'tis music to my melancholy.

Sol. My lord,

A cloud of dust and men the sentinels from

The east gate discover; and, as they guess, the storm

Bends this way.

Bren. Let it be.

Sol. My lord?

Bren. Let it be.

I will not fight to-day: bid Stratheman

Draw to the trenches. On, prithee, on! on!