POMPEY. What think you, citizens, why stand ye mute?
Shall Sylla be dictator here in Rome?
CITIZENS. By full consent Sylla shall be dictator.
FLACCUS. Then in the name of Rome I here present The rods and axes into Sylla's hand; And fortunate prove Sylla, our dictator.
[_Trumpets sound: cry within_, SYLLA _Dictator_.
SYLLA. My fortunes, Flaccus, cannot be impeach'd.
For at my birth the planets passing kind Could entertain no retrograde aspects: And that I may with kindness 'quite their love, My countrymen, I will prevent the cause 'Gainst all the false encounters of mishap.
You name me your dictator, but prefix No time, no course, but give me leave to rule And yet exempt me not from your revenge.
Thus by your pleasures being set aloft, Straight by your furies I should quickly fall.
No, citizens, who readeth Sylla's mind, Must form my titles in another kind: Either let Sylla be dictator ever, Or flatter Sylla with these titles never.
CITIZENS. Perpetual be thy glory and renown: Perpetual lord dictator shalt thou be.
POMPEY. Hereto the senate frankly doth agree.
SYLLA. Then so shall Sylla reign, you senators.
Then so shall Sylla rule, you citizens, As senators and citizens that please me Shall be my friends; the rest cannot disease me.
_Enter_ LUCRETIUS, _with Soldiers_.
But see, whereas Lucretius is return'd!
Welcome, brave Roman: where is Marius?
Are these Praenestians put unto the sword?
LUCRETIUS. The city, noble Sylla, razed is, And Marius dead--not by our swords, my lord, But with more constancy than Cato died.
SYLLA. What, constancy! and but a very boy?
Why then I see he was his father's son.
But let us have this constancy described.
LUCRETIUS. After our fierce assaults and their resist, Our siege, their sallying out to stop our trench, Labour and hunger reigning in the town, The younger Marius on the city's wall Vouchsaf'd an inter-parley at the last; Wherein with constancy and courage too He boldly arm'd his friends, himself, to death; And, spreading of his colours on the wall, For answer said he could not brook to yield, Or trust a tyrant such as Sylla was.
SYLLA. What, did the brainsick boy upbraid me so?
But let us hear the rest, Lucretius.
LUCRETIUS. And, after great persuasions to his friends And worthy resolution of them all, He first did sheathe his poniard in his breast, And so in order died all the rest.
SYLLA. Now, by my sword, this was a worthy jest.[159]
Yet, silly boy, I needs must pity thee, Whose noble mind could never mated be.
Believe me, countrymen, a sudden thought, A sudden change in Sylla now hath wrought.
Old Marius and his son were men of name, Nor fortune's laughs nor low'rs their minds could tame, And when I count their fortunes that are past, I see that death confirm'd their fames at last.
Then he that strives to manage mighty things, Amidst his triumphs gains a troubled mind.
The greatest hope, the greatest harm it brings, And poor men in content their glory find.
If then content be such a pleasant thing, Why leave I country life to live a king?
Yet kings are gods, and make the proudest stoop; Yea, but themselves are still pursued with hate: And men were made to mount and then to droop.
Such chances wait upon uncertain fate.
That where she kisseth once, she quelleth twice; Then whoso lives content is happy, wise.
What motion moveth this philosophy?
O Sylla, see the ocean ebbs and flows;[160]
The spring-time wanes, when winter draweth nigh: Ay, these are true and most assured notes.
Inconstant chance such tickle turns has lent.
As whoso fears no fall, must seek content.
FLACCUS. Whilst graver thoughts of honour should allure thee, What maketh Sylla muse and mutter thus?
SYLLA. I, that have pass'd amidst the mighty troops Of armed legions, through a world of war, Do now bethink me, Flaccus, of my chance: How I alone, where many men were slain, In spite of fate am come to Rome again.
And though[161] I wield the reverend stiles of state; She[162], Sylla, with a beck could break thy neck.
What lord of Rome hath dar'd as much as I?
Yet, Flaccus, know'st thou not that I must die?
The labouring sisters on the weary looms Have drawn my web of life at length, I know; And men of wit must think upon their tombs: For beasts with careless steps to Lethe go Where men, whose thoughts and honours climb on high, Living with fame, must learn with fame to die.
POMPEY. What lets, my lord, in governing this state, To live in rest, and die with honour too?
SYLLA. What lets me, Pompey? why, my courteous friend, Can he remain secure that wields a charge, Or think of wit when flatterers do commend, Or be advis'd that careless runs at large?
No, Pompey: honey words make foolish minds, And pow'r the greatest wit with error blinds.
Flaccus, I murder'd Anthony, thy friend; Romans, some here have lost at my command Their fathers, mothers, brothers, and allies; And think you, Sylla, thinking these misdeeds, Bethinks not on your grudges and mislike?
Yes, countrymen, I bear them still in mind: Then, Pompey, were I not a silly man To leave my rule, and trust these Romans then?
POMPEY. Your grace hath small occasions of mistrust, Nor seek these citizens for your disclaim.
SYLLA. But, Pompey, now these reaching plumes of pride, That mounted up my fortunes to the clouds, By grave conceits shall straight be laid aside, And Sylla thinks of far more simple shrouds.
For having tried occasion in the throne, I'll see if she dare frown, when state is gone.
Lo, senators, the man that sat aloft, Now deigns to give inferiors highest place.
Lo, here the man whom Rome repined oft, A private man content to brook disgrace.
Romans, lo, here the axes, rods, and all: I'll master fortune, lest she make me thrall.
Now whoso list accuse me, tell my wrongs, Upbraid me in the presence of this state.
Is none these jolly citizens among, That will accuse, or say I am ingrate?
Then will I say, and boldly boast my chances, That nought may force the man whom fate advances.
FLACCUS. What meaneth Sylla in this sullen mood, To leave his titles on the sudden thus?
SYLLA. Consul, I mean with calm and quiet mind To pass my days, till[163] happy death I find.
POMPEY. What greater wrong than leave thy country so?
SYLLA. Both it and life must Sylla leave in time.
CITIZEN. Yet during life have care of Rome and us.
SYLLA. O wanton world, that flatter'st in thy prime, And breathest balm and poison mixed in one!
See how these wavering Romans wish'd my reign, That whilom fought and sought to have me slain. [_Aside_.]
My countrymen, this city wants no store Of fathers, warriors, to supply my room; So grant me peace, and I will die for Rome.
_Enter two Burglars to them_, POPPEY _and_ CURTALL.