_Enter a_ Soldier, _with_ MANDRICARD _disguised._
How now, my friend! what fellow hast thou there?
_Sol._ He says, my lord, that he is servant unto Mandricard.
_Mars._ To Mandricard! It fits me not who sway the diadem, And rule the wealthy realms of Barbary, To stain my thoughts with any cowardice.-- Thy master brav'd me to my teeth, He back'd the Prince of Cuba for my foe; For which nor he nor his shall 'scape my hands. No, soldier, think me resolute as he.
_Mand._ It grieves me much that princes disagree, Sith black repentance followeth afterward: But leaving that, pardon me, gracious lord.
_Mars._ For thou entreat'st, and newly art arriv'd, And yet thy sword is not imbru'd in blood; Upon conditions, I will pardon thee,-- That thou shalt never tell thy master, Mandricard, Nor any fellow-soldier of the camp, That King Marsilius licens'd thee depart: He shall not think I am so much his friend, That he or one of his shall 'scape my hand.
_Mand_ I swear, my lord, and vow to keep my word.
_Mars._ Then take my banderol[154] of red; Mine, and none but mine, shall honour thee, And safe conduct thee to Port Carthagene.
_Mand._ But say, my lord, if Mandricard were here, What favour should he find, or life or death?
_Mars._ I tell thee, friend, it fits not for a king To prize his wrath before his courtesy. Were Mandricard, the King of Mexico, In prison here, and crav'd but liberty, So little hate hangs in Marsilius' breast, As one entreaty should quite raze it out. But this concerns not thee, therefore, farewell.
_Mand._ Thanks, and good fortune fall to such a king, As covets to be counted courteous. [_Exit_ MARSILIUS. Blush, Mandricard; the honour of thy foe disgraceth thee; Thou wrongest him that wisheth thee but well; Thou bringest store of men from Mexico To battle him that scorns to injure thee, Pawning his colours for thy warrantise. Back to thy ships, and hie thee to thy home; Budge not a foot to aid Prince Rodomont; But friendly gratulate these favours found, And meditate on naught but to be friends. [_Exeunt._
SCENE I.--_The Woods near the Castle of_ MARSILIUS.
_Orl._ Woods, trees, leaves; leaves, trees, woods; _tria sequuntur tria_.--Ho, Minerva! _salve_, good-morrow; how do you to-day? Tell me, sweet goddess, will Jove send Mercury to Calypso, to let me go? will he? why, then, he's a gentleman, every hair o' the head on him.--But, ho, Orgalio! where art thou, boy?