_Sep._ And they will not know me now, they'l never know me.
Who dare blush now at my acquaintance? ha?
Am I not totally a span-new Gallant,
Fit for the choycest eyes? have I not gold?
The friendship of the world? if they shun me now
(Though I were the arrantest rogue, as I am well forward)
Mine own curse, and the Devils too light on me.

_Ant._ Is't not _Septimius_?

_Sce._ Yes.

_Dol._ He that kill'd _Pompey_?

_Sce._ The same Dog, Scab; that guilded botch, that rascal.

_Dol._ How glorious villany appears in _Egypt_!

_Sep._ Gallants, and Souldiers, sure they do admire me.

_Sce._ Stand further off, thou stinkest.

_Sep._ A likely matter:
These Cloaths smell mustily, do they not, Gallants?
They stink, they stink, alas poor things, contemptible.
By all the Gods in _Egypt_, the perfumes
That went to trimming these cloathes, cost me--

_Sce._ Thou stinkest still.