FRESOLIN, Brother to FRANCELIA.

IPHIGENE, young Palatine of Florence.

Palatine of Mensecke, Governor, one of the chief Rebels.

Palatine of Tork, a Rebel.

ALMERIN, a gallant Rebel.

MORAT, his Lieutenant-Colonel.

FRANCELIA, the Governor's Daughter.

ORILLA, a waiting-woman to FRANCELIA.

RAGUELIN, servant in the Governor's house, spy to BRENNORALT.

Gaoler, Guard, Soldiers.

SCENE-POLAND.

BRENNORALT.

A TRAGEDY.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Enter BRENNORALT and DORAN.

Bren. I say the court is but a narrow circuit,
Though something elevate above the common;
A kind of ant's nest in the great wild field,
O'ercharg'd with multitudes of quick inhabitants,
Who still are miserably busied to get in
What the loose foot of prodigality

As fast does throw abroad.

Doran. Good:

A most eternal place of low affronts,
And then as low submissions.

Bren. Right.

High cowards in revenges 'mongst themselves,
And only valiant when they mischief others.
Doran. Stars that would have no names,
But for the ills they threaten in conjunction.
Bren. A race of shallow and unskilful pilots;
Which do misguide the ship even in the calm,

And in great storms serve but as weight to sink it.
More, prithee more:

"Tis music to my melancholy.

S

[Alarm within.

Enter Soldier.

Sold. My lord, a cloud of dust and men The sentinels from the east gate discover; And as they guess, the storm bends this way.

Bren. Let it be.

Sold. My lord?

Bren. Let it be;

I will not fight to-day :

Bid Stratheman draw to the trenches.

On, prithee on.

Doran. The king employs a company of formal beards,

Men, who have no other proofs of their

Long life, but that they are old.

Bren. Right: and if they're wise

"Tis for themselves, not others,

As old men ever are.

Enter second Soldier.

2 Sold. Colonel, Colonel!

The enemy's at hand, kills all the sentries:

Young Almerin leads them on again.

Bren. Let him lead them off again.

2 Sold. Colonel

Bren. Begone!

If thou'rt afraid, go hide thyself.

Bren. This Almerin's the ague of the camp:

2 Sold. What a devil ails he?

He shakes it once a day.

Doran. He's the ill conscience rather:

He never lets it rest; would I were at home again.

'Sfoot we lie here i' th' trenches, as if it were

For a wind to carry us into th' other world:

Every hour we expect

I'll no more on't.

Bren. Prithee

Doran. Not I, by heav'n.

Bren. What, man! the worst is but fair death.

[Alarum.

[Exit.