Syph. Juba commands Numidia's hardy troops, Mounted on steeds unused to the restraint Of curbs or bits, and fleeter than the winds: Give but the word, we snatch this damsel up, And bear her off. Jub. Can such dishonest thoughts Rise up in man? Wouldst thou seduce my youth To do an act that would destroy mine honour? Syph. Gods, I could tear my hair to hear you talk! Honour's a fine imaginary notion, That draws in raw and inexperienced men To real mischiefs, while they hunt a shadow. Jub. Wouldst thou degrade thy prince into a ruffian?
