Scene 3.
Enter Archas, Theodor, Putskie, Ancient, and Soldiers, carrying his Armour piece-meal, his Colours wound up, and his Drums in Cases.
Theod.
This is the heaviest march we e're trod, Captain.
Puts.
This was not wont to be; these honour'd Pieces
The fiery God of War himself would smile at,
Buckl'd upon that body, were not wont thus,
Like Relicks to be offer'd to long rust,
And heavy-ey'd oblivion-brood upon 'em
Arch.
There set 'em down; and glorious War farewel;
Thou Child of Honour, and ambitious Thoughts,
Begot in Blood, and nurs'd with Kingdoms ruines;
Thou golden danger, courted by thy Followers
Through Fires and Famines, for one Title from thee,
Prodigal Man-kind spending all his Fortunes;
A long farewel I give thee: Noble Arms,
You Ribs for mighty Minds, you Iron-houses,
Made to defy the thunder-claps of Fortune,
Rust and consuming Time must now dwell with yee:
And thou good Sword that knewst the way to Conquest,