_Enter_ Septimius, _with a head_, Achillas, _Guard._

_Sep._ 'Tis here, 'tis done, behold you fearfull viewers,
Shake, and behold the model of the world here,
The pride, and strength, look, look again, 'tis finish'd;
That, that whole Armies, nay whole nations,
Many and mighty Kings, have been struck blind at,
And fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrours,
That steel war waited on, and fortune courted,
That high plum'd honour built up for her own;
Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness,
Behold that child of war, with all his glories;
By this poor hand made breathless, here (my _Achillas_)
_Egypt_, and _Cæsar_, owe me for this service,
And all the conquer'd Nations.

_Ach._ Peace _Septimius_,
Thy words sound more ungratefull than thy actions,
Though sometimes safety seek an instrument
Of thy unworthy nature, thou (loud boaster)
Think not she is bound to love him too, that's barbarous.
Why did not I, if this be meritorious,
And binds the King unto me, and his bounties,
Strike this rude stroke? I'le tell thee (thou poor _Roman_)
It was a sacred head, I durst not heave at,
Not heave a thought.

_Sep._ It was.