MARIUS. By'r lady,[140] Fulvia, you are gaily read: Your mother well may boast you for her own; For both of you have words and scoffs at will.
And since I like the compass of your wit, Myself will stand, and, ladies, you shall sit.
And, if you please to wade in farther words, Let's see what brawls your memories affords.
CORNELIA. Your lordship's passing mannerly in jest; But that you may perceive we smell your drift, We both will sit, and countenance your shift.
MARIUS. Where constancy and beauty do consort, There ladies' threatenings turn to merry sport.
How fare these beautiful? what, well at ease?
FULVIA. As ready as at first for to displease; For, full confirm'd that we shall surely die, We wait our ends with Roman constancy.
MARIUS. Why, think you Marius hath confirm'd your death?
FULVIA. What other fruit may spring from tyrant's hands?
MARIUS. In faith then, ladies, thus the matter stands: Since you mistake my love and courtesy, Prepare yourselves, for you shall surely die.
CORNELIA. Ay, Marius, now I know thou dost not lie; And that thou mayst, unto thy lasting blame, Extinguish in our deaths thy wished fame, Grant us this boon that, making choice of death, We may be freed from fury of thine ire.
MARIUS. An easy boon; ladies, I condescend.
CORNELIA. Then suffer us in private chamber close To meditate a day or two alone; And, tyrant, if thou find us living then, Commit us straight unto thy slaughtering-men.
MARIUS. Ladies, I grant; for Marius nill deny A suit so easy and of such import; For pity 'twere that dames of constancy Should not be agents of their misery.
[_Here he whispers_ LECTORIUS.
Lectorius, hark, despatch.
[_Exit_ LECTORIUS.
CORNELIA. So, Fulvia, now the latest doom is fix'd, And nought remains but constant Roman hearts To bear the brunt of irksome fury's spite.
Rouse thee, my dear, and daunt those faint conceits, That trembling stand aghast at bitter death.
Bethink thee now that Sylla was thy sire, Whose courage heaven nor fortune could abate: Then, like the offspring of fierce Sylla's house, Pass with the thrice-renowned Phrygian dame, As to thy marriage, so unto thy death: For nought to wretches is more sweet than death.
FULVIA. Madam, confirm'd as well to die as live, Fulvia awaiteth nothing but her death.
Yet had my father known the course of change, Or seen our loss by lucky augury, This tyrant nor his followers had liv'd To 'joy the ruin of fierce Sylla's house.
MARIUS. But, lady, they that dwell on fortune's call No sooner rise, but subject are to fall.
FULVIA. Marius, I doubt not but our constant ends Shall make thee wail thy tyrant's government.
MARIUS. When tyrant's rule doth breed my care and woe, Then will I say two ladies told me so.
But here comes Lectorius. Now, my lord.
Have you brought those things?
_Enter_ LECTORIUS.
LECTORIUS. I have, noble consul.
MARIUS. Now, ladies, you are resolute to die?
CORNELIA. Ay, Marius, for terror cannot daunt us.
Tortures were framed to dread the baser eye, And not t'appal a princely majesty.
MARIUS. And Marius lives to triumph o'er his foes, That train their warlike troops amidst the plains, And are enclos'd and hemm'd with shining arms, Not to appal such princely majesty.
Virtue, sweet ladies, is of more regard In Marius' mind, where honour is enthron'd, Than Rome or rule of Roman empery.
[_Here he puts chains about their necks_.
The bands, that should combine your snow-white wrists, Are these which shall adorn your milk-white necks.
The private cells, where you shall end your lives, Is Italy, is Europe--nay the world.
Th'Euxinian Sea, the fierce Sicilian Gulf, The river Ganges and Hydaspes' stream Shall level lie, and smooth as crystal ice, While Fulvia and Cornelia pass thereon.
The soldiers, that should guard you to your deaths, Shall be five thousand gallant youths of Rome, In purple robes cross-barr'd with pales of gold, Mounted on warlike coursers for the field, Fet[141] from the mountain-tops of Corsica, Or bred in hills of bright Sardinia, Who shall conduct and bring you to your lord.
Ay, unto Sylla, ladies, shall you go, And tell him Marius holds within his hands Honour for ladies, for ladies rich reward; But as for Sylla and for his compeers, Who dare 'gainst Marius vaunt their golden crests, Tell him for them old Marius holds revenge, And in his hands both triumphs life and death.
CORNELIA. Doth Marius use with glorious words to jest, And mock his captives with these glosing[142] terms?
MARIUS. No, ladies; Marius hath sought for honour with his sword, And holds disdain to triumph in your falls.
Live, Cornelia: live, fair and fairest Fulvia!
If you have done or wrought me injury, Sylla shall pay it through his misery.
FULVIA. So gracious, famous consul, are thy words, That Rome and we shall celebrate thy worth, And Sylla shall confess himself o'ercome.
CORNELIA. If ladies' prayers or tears may move the heavens, Sylla shall vow himself old Marius' friend.
MARIUS. Ladies, for that I nought at all regard: Sylla's my foe, I'll triumph over him; For other conquest glory doth not win.
Therefore come on, That I may send you unto Sylla.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter a_ CLOWN, _drunk, with a pint of wine in his hand, and two or three_ SOLDIERS.
1ST SOLDIER. Sirrah, dally not with us; you know where he is.
CLOWN. O, sir, a quart is a quart in any man's purse, and drink is drink, and can my master live without his drink, I pray you?
2D SOLDIER. You have a master then, sirrah?
CLOWN. Have I a master, thou scoundrel? I have an orator to my master, a wise man to my master. But, fellows, I must make a parenthesis of this pint-pot, for words make men dry: now, by my troth, I drink to Lord Anthony.
3D SOLDIER. Fellow-soldiers, the weakness of his brain hath made his tongue walk largely; we shall have some novelties by-and-by.
CLOWN. O most surpassing wine, Thou marrow of the vine!
More welcome unto me Than whips to scholars be.
Thou art, and ever was, A means to mend an ass; Thou makest some to sleep, And many mo to weep, And some be glad and merry, With heigh down derry, derry.
Thou makest some to stumble, And many mo to fumble, And me have pinky neyne.[143]
More brave and jolly wine!
What need I praise thee mo, For thou art good, with heigh-ho!
3D SOLDIER. If wine then be so good, I prithee, for thy part, Tell us where Lord Anthony is, and thou shalt have a quart.
CLOWN. First shall the snow be black, And pepper lose his smack, And stripes forsake my back: First merry drunk with sack, I will go boast and track, And all your costards crack, Before I do the knack Shall make me sing alack.
Alack, the old man is weary, For wine hath made him merry.
With a heigh-ho.