_Sce._ She will be sick, well, sullen,
Merry, coy, over-joy'd, and seem to dye
All in one half hour, to make an asse of him:
I make no doubt she will be drunk too damnably,
And in her drink will fight, then she fits him.

_Ant._ That thou shouldst bring her in!

_Sce._ 'Twas my blind fortune,
My Souldiers told me, by the weight 'twas wicked:
Would I had carried _Milo's_ Bull a furlong,
When I brought in this Cow-Calf: he has advanced me
From an old Souldier, to a bawd of memory:
O, that the Sons of _Pompey_ were behind him,
The honour'd _Cato_, and fierce _Juba_ with 'em,
That they might whip him from his whore, and rowze him:
That their fierce Trumpets, from his wanton trances,
Might shake him like an Earth-quake.

_Enter_ Septimius.

_Ant._ What's this fellow?

_Dol._ Why, a brave fellow, if we judge men by their clothes.

_Ant._ By my faith he is brave indeed: he's no commander?

_Sce._ Yes, he has a _Roman_ face, he has been at fair wars
And plenteous too, and rich, his Trappings shew it.