CURTALL. These are very indiscreet counsels, neighbour Poppey, and I will follow your misadvisement.
POPPEY. I tell you, goodman Curtall, the wench hath wrong. O vain world, O foolish men! Could a man in nature cast a wench down, and disdain in nature to lift her up again? Could he take away her dishonesty without bouncing up the banns of matrimony? O learned poet, well didst thou write fustian verse.
_These maids are daws That go to the laws, And a babe in the belly_.
CURTALL. Tut, man, 'tis the way the world must follow, for
_Maids must be kind, Good husbands to find_.
POPPEY. But mark the fierse[164],
_If they swell before, It will grieve them sore_.
But see, yond's Master Sylla: faith, a pretty fellow is a.
SYLLA. What seek my countrymen? what would my friends?
CURTALL. Nay, sir, your kind words shall not serve the turn: why, think you to thrust your soldiers into our kindred with your courtesies, sir?
POPPEY. I tell you, Master Sylla, my neighbour will have the law: he had the right, he will have the wrong; for therein dwells the law.
CONSUL. What desire these men of Rome?
CURTALL. Neighbour, sharpen the edge-tool of your wits upon the whetstone of indiscretion, that your words may shine like the razors of Palermo[165]: [_to_ POPPEY] you have learning with ignorance, therefore speak my tale.
POPPEY. Then, worshipful Master Sylla, be it known unto you, That my neighbour's daughter Dority Was a maid of restority; Fair, fresh, and fine As a merry cup of wine; Her eyes like two potch'd eggs, Great and goodly her legs; But mark my doleful ditty, Alas! for woe and pity!
A soldier of your's Upon a bed of flowers Gave her such a fall, As she lost maidenhead and all.
And thus in very good time I end my rudeful rhyme.
SYLLA. And what of this, my friend? why seek you me, Who have resign'd my titles and my state, To live a private life, as you do now?
Go move the Consul Flaccus in this cause, Who now hath power to execute the laws.
CURTALL. And are you no more master dixcator, nor generality of the soldiers?
SYLLA. My powers do cease, my titles are resign'd.
CURTALL. Have you signed your titles? O base mind, that being in the Paul's steeple of honour, hast cast thyself into the sink of simplicity.
Fie, beast!
Were I a king, I would day by day Suck up white bread and milk, And go a-jetting in a jacket of silk; My meat should be the curds, My drink should be the whey, And I would have a mincing lass to love me every day.
POPPEY. Nay, goodman Curtall, your discretions are very simple; let me cramp him with a reason. Sirrah, whether is better good ale or small-beer? Alas! see his simplicity that cannot answer me: why, I say ale.
CURTALL. And so say I, neighbour.
POPPEY. Thou hast reason; ergo, say I, 'tis better be a king than a clown. Faith, Master Sylla, I hope a man may now call ye knave by authority.
SYLLA. With what impatience hear I these upbraids, That whilom plagued the least offence with death.
O Sylla, these are stales of destiny By some upbraids to try thy constancy.
My friends, these scorns of yours perhaps may move The next dictator shun to yield his state, For fear he find as much as Sylla doth.
But, Flaccus, to prevent their farther wrong, Vouchsafe some lictor may attach the man, And do them right that thus complain abuse.
FLACCUS. Sirrah, go you and bring the soldier, That hath so loosely lean'd to lawless lust: We will have means sufficient, be assured, To cool his heat, and make the wanton chaste.
CURTALL. We thank your mastership. Come, neighbour, let us jog.
Faith, this news will set my daughter Dorothy agog.
[_Exeunt cum Lictore_.
SYLLA. Grave senators and Romans, now you see The humble bent of Sylla's changed mind.
Now will I leave you, lords, from courtly train To dwell content amidst my country cave, Where no ambitious humours shall approach The quiet silence of my happy sleep: Where no delicious jouissance or toys Shall tickle with delight my temper'd ears; But wearying out the lingering day with toil, Tiring my veins, and furrowing of my soul, The silent night, with slumber stealing on, Shall lock these careful closets of mine eyes.
O, had I known the height of happiness, Or bent mine eyes upon my mother-earth, Long since, O Rome, had Sylla with rejoice Forsaken arms to lead a private life!
FLACCUS. But in this humbleness of mind, my lord, Whereas experience prov'd and art do meet, How happy were these fair Italian fields, If they were graced with so sweet a sun.
Then I for Rome, and Rome with me, requires That Sylla will abide, and govern Rome.
SYLLA. O Flaccus, if th'Arabian phoenix strive By nature's warning to renew her kind, When, soaring nigh the glorious eye of heaven, She from her cinders doth revive her sex, Why should not Sylla learn by her to die, That erst have been the Phoenix of this land?
And drawing near the sunshine of content, Perish obscure to make your glories grow.
For as the higher trees do shield the shrubs From posting Phlegon's[166] warmth and breathing fire, So mighty men obscure each other's fame, And make the best deservers fortune's game.
_Enter_ GENIUS.
But ah, what sudden furies do affright?
What apparitious fantasies are these?
O, let me rest, sweet lords, for why methinks Some fatal spells are sounded in mine ears.
GENIUS. _Subsequitur tua mors: privari lumine Syllam, Numina Parcarum jam fera precipiunt Precipiunt fera jam Parcarum numina Syllam Lumine privari: mors tua subsequitur.
Elysium petis, o faelix! et fatidici astri Praescius: Heroes, o, petis innumeros!
Innumeros petis, o, Heroes, praescius astri Fatidici: et faelix, o, petis Elysium_!
[Evanescit subit.
SYLLA. _Ergo-ne post dulces annos properantia fata?
Ergo-ne jam tenebrae praemia lucis erunt?
Attamen, ut vitae fortunam gloria mortis Vincat, in extremo funere cantet olor_.
POMPEY. How fares my lord? what dreadful thoughts are these?
What doubtful answers on a sudden thus?
SYLLA. Pompey, the man that made the world to stoop, And fetter'd fortune in the chains of power, Must droop and draw the chariot of fate Along the darksome banks of Acheron.
The heavens have warn'd me of my present fall.
O, call Cornelia forth: let Sylla see His daughter Fulvia, ere his eyes be shut.
[_Exit one for_ CORNELIA.
FLACCUS. Why, Sylla, where is now thy wonted hope In greatest hazard of unstayed chance.
What, shall a little biting blast of pain Blemish the blossoms of thy wonted pride?
SYLLA. My Flaccus, worldly joys and pleasures fade; Inconstant time, like to the fleeting tide, With endless course man's hopes doth overbear: Nought now remains that Sylla fain would have, But lasting fame, when body lies in grave.
_Enter_ CORNELIA, FULVIA.