Cap.
To them, the legions garrison'd in Gallia
After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending
You here at Milford-Haven, with your ships:
They are in readiness.

Luc.
But what from Rome?

Cap.
The senate hath stirr'd up the confiners,
And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,
That promise noble service: and they come
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,
Syenna's brother.

Luc.
When expect you them?

Cap.
With the next benefit o'th' wind.

Luc.
This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers
Be muster'd, bid the captains look to't. Now, sir,
What have you dream'd, of late, of this war's purpose?

Sooth.
Last night the very gods shew'd me a vision
(I fast, and pray'd for their intelligence)
I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd
From th' spungy south, to this part of the west,
There vanish'd in the sun-beams; which portends
(Unless my sins abuse my divination)
Success to th' Roman host.

Luc.
Dream often so,
And never false.—Soft ho, what trunk is here

Without his top? the ruin speaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building. How! a page!—
Or dead, or sleeping on him? but dead rather:
For nature doth abhor to make his couch
With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.
Let's see the boy's face.

Cap.
He's alive, my lord.

Luc.
He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one,
Inform us of the fortunes, for it seems
They crave to be demanded: who is this
Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? who was he
That, otherwise than noble nature did,
Hath alter'd that good picture; what's thy interest
In this sad wreck? how came it, and who is it?
What art thou?

Imo.
I am nothing; or if not,
Nothing to be, were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Britain, and a good,
That here by mountaineers lyes slain: alas!
There are no more such masters: I may wander
From east to occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve them truly, never
Find such another master.

Luc.
'Lack, good youth!
Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than
Thy master bleeding: say his name, good friend.

Imo.
Richard du Camp. If I do lye, and do
No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope [aside.
They'll pardon it. Say you, Sir?

Luc.
Thy name?

Imo.
Fidele, Sir.

Luc.
Thou dost approve thy self the very same;
Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but be sure
No less belov'd. The Roman emperor's letters
Sent by a Consul to me should no sooner
Than thine own worth prefer thee: go with me.

Imo.
I'll follow, Sir. But first, an't please the gods,
I'll hide my master from the flies as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave,
And on it said a century of pray'rs,
(Such as I can,) twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh,
And leaving so his service follow you,
So please you entertain me.

Luc.
Ay, good youth,
And rather father thee, than master thee.
My friends,
The boy hath taught us manly duties: let us
Find out the prettiest dazied-plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partizans
A grave; come, arm him: boy, he is preferr'd
By thee to us, and he shall be interr'd
As soldiers can. Be chearful, wipe thine eyes.
Some falls are means the happier to arise. [Exeunt.

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