1ST SOLDIER. I prythee leave these rhymes, and tell us where thy master is?
CLOWN. Faith, where you shall not be, Unless ye go with me.
But shall I tell them so?
O, no, sir, no, no, no.
The man hath many a foe, As far as I do know: You do not flout me, I hope.
See how this liquor fumes, And how my force presumes.
You would know where Lord Anthony is? I perceive you.
Shall I say he is in yond farmhouse? I deceive you.
Shall I tell you this wine is for him? The gods forfend, And so I end. Go, fellow-fighters, there's a bob for ye.
2D SOLDIER. My masters, let us follow this clown, for questionless this grave orator is in yonder farmhouse[144]. But who cometh yonder?
_Enter_ OLD ANTHONY.
ANTHONY. I wonder why my peasant stays so long, And with my wonder hasteth on my woe, And with my woe I am assailed with fear, And with my fear await with faintful breath The final period of my pains by death.
1ST SOLDIER. Yond's the man we seek for, soldiers. Unsheathe your swords, and make a riddance of Marius' ancient enemy.
CLOWN. Master, fly, fly, Or else you shall die!
A plague on this wine, Hath made me so fine!
And will you not be gone?
Then I'll leave you alone, And sleep upon your woe, With a lamentable heigh-ho.
[_Exit_.
ANTHONY. Betrayed at last by witless oversight!
Now, Anthony, prepare thyself to die.
Lo, where the monstrous ministers of wrath Menace thy murder with their naked swords.
2D SOLDIER. Anthony, well-met: the consul Marius, with other confederate senators, have adjudged thee death, therefore prepare thyself, and think we favour thee in this little protraction.
ANTHONY. Immortal powers, that know the painful cares That wait upon my poor distressed heart, O, bend your brows, and level all your looks Of dreadful awe upon these daring men!
And thou, sweet niece of Atlas, on whose lips And tender tongue the pliant muses sit, Let gentle course of sweet aspiring speech, Let honey-flowing terms of weary woe, Let fruitful figures and delightful lines Enforce a spring of pity from their eyes, Amaze the murd'rous passions of their minds, That they may favour woful Anthony.
O countrymen, what shall become of Rome, When reverend duty droopeth through disgrace?
O countrymen, what shall become of Rome, When woful nature, widow of her joys, Weeps on our walls to see her laws depress'd?
O Romans, hath not Anthony's discourse Seal'd up the mouths of false seditious men, Assoil'd[145] the doubts and quaint controls of power, Relieved the mournful matron with his pleas?
And will you seek to murder Anthony?
The lions brook with kindness their relief; The sheep reward the shepherd with their fleece; Yet Romans seek to murder Anthony.
1ST SOLDIER. Why, what enchanting terms of art are these, That force my heart to pity his distress?
2D SOLDIER. His action, speech, his favour and his grace, My rancour rage and rigour doth deface.
3D SOLDIER. So sweet his words, that now of late, meseems, His art doth draw my soul from out my lips.
ANTHONY. What envious eyes, reflecting nought but rage, What barbarous heart, refresh'd with nought but blood, That rends not to behold the senseless trees In doly[146] season drooping without leaves?
The shepherd sighs upon the barren hills, To see his bleating lambs with faintful looks Behold the valleys robb'd of springing flowers, That whilom wont to yield them yearly food.
Even meanest things, exchang'd from former state, The virtuous mind with some remorse doth mate.
Can then your eyes with thundering threats of rage Cast furious gleams of anger upon age?
Can then your hearts with furies mount so high, As they should harm the Roman Anthony?
I, far more kind than senseless tree, have lent A kindly sap to our declining state, And like a careful shepherd have foreseen The heavy dangers of this city Rome; And made the citizens the happy flock, Whom I have fed with counsels and advice: But now those locks that, for their reverend white, Surpass the down on Aesculapius' chin: But now that tongue, whose terms and fluent style For number pass'd the hosts of heavenly fires: But now that head, within whose subtle brains The queen of flowing eloquence did dwell--
_Enter a_ CAPTAIN.
These locks, this tongue, this head, this life, and all, To please a tyrant, trait'rously must fall.
CAPTAIN. Why, how now, soldiers, is he living yet?
And will you be bewitched with his words?
Then take this fee, false orator, from me: [_Stabs him_.
Elysium best beseems thy faintful limbs.
ANTHONY. O blissful pains! now Anthony must die, Which serv'd and lov'd Rome and her empery.
[_Moritur[147].
CAPTAIN. Go, curtal off that neck with present stroke, And straight present it unto Marius.
1ST SOLDIER. Even in this head did all the muses dwell: The bees, that sat upon the Grecian's lips, Distill'd their honey on his temper'd tongue.
2D SOLDIER. The crystal dew of fair Castalian springs With gentle floatings trickled on his brains: The graces kissed his kind and courteous brows, Apollo gave the beauties of his harp,
_Enter_ LECTORIUS _pensive_.
And melodies unto his pliant speech.
CAPTAIN. Leave these presumptuous praises, countrymen: And see Lectorius, pensive where he comes.
Lo, here, my lord, the head of Anthony; See here the guerdon fit for Marius' foe, Whom dread Apollo prosper in his rule.
LECTORIUS. O Romans, Marius sleeps among the dead, And Rome laments the loss of such a friend.
CAPTAIN. A sudden and a woful chance, my lord, Which we intentive[148] fain would understand.
LECTORIUS. Though swoll'n with sighs, my heart for sorrow burst, And tongue with tears and plaints be choked up, Yet will I furrow forth with forced breath A speedy passage to my pensive speech.
Our consul Marius, worthy soldiers, Of late within a pleasant plot of ground Sat down for pleasure near a crystal spring, Accompanied with many lords of Rome.
Bright was the day, and on the spreading trees The frolic citizens[149] of forest sung Their lays and merry notes on perching boughs; When suddenly appeared in the east Seven mighty eagles with their talons fierce, Who, waving oft about our consul's head, At last with hideous cry did soar away.
When suddenly old Marius aghast, With reverend smile, determin'd with a sigh The doubtful silence of the standers-by.
Romans, said he, old Marius now must die: These seven fair eagles, birds of mighty Jove, That at my birthday on my cradle sat, Now at my last day warn[150] me to my death, And lo, I feel the deadly pangs approach.
What should I more? In brief, with many prayers For Rome, his son--his goods and lands dispos'd-- Our worthy consul to our wonder died.
The city is amaz'd, for Sylla hastes To enter Rome with fury, sword and fire.
Go place that head upon the capitol, And to your wards, for dangers are at hand.
[_Exit_.
CAPTAIN. Had we foreseen this luckless chance before, Old Anthony had liv'd and breathed yet.
[_Exeunt_.
ACTUS QUINTUS.