Ben Jonson

“ Count. He had indeed. Well, speak no more of him.
Max. Signior, perceive you the error?
'twas no good office in us to stretch the remembrance
of so dear a loss. Count Ferneze,
let summer sit in your eye; look
chearfully, sweet count; will you do me
the honour to confine this noble spirit within
the circle of your arms?
Count. Honour'd Chamont, reach me your valiant hand;
I could have wish'd some happier accident
Had made the way unto this mutual knowledge
Which either of us now must take of other;
But sure it is the pleasure of our fates,
That we should thus be rack'd on fortune's wheel. ”

“ As is Ferneze; then, if I mistake not,
He scorns to have his worth so underprised,
That it should need an adjunct in exchange
Of any equal fortune. Noble signior,
I am a soldier, and I love Chamont;
Ere I would bruise his estimation
With the least ruin of mine own respect
In this vile kind, these legs should rot with irons,
This body pine in prison, till the flesh
Drop from my bones in flakes, like wither'd leaves,
In heart of autumn, from a stubborn oak.
Max. Monsieur Gasper, (I take it so is
your name) misprise me not ”

“ Cam. We know it, signior Maximilian;
The fame of all your actions sounds nought else
But perfect honour from her swelling cheeks.
Max. It shall do so still, I assure you, and
I will give you reason: there is in this last
action (you know) a noble gentleman of our
party, and a right valiant, semblably prisoner
to your general, as your honour'd
selves to me, for whose safety this tongue
has given warrant to his honourable father,
the count Ferneze. You conceive me.
Cam. I, signior.
Max. Well, then I must tell you your
ransoms be to redeem him. What think
you? your answer. ”