A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Vii Part 13

ANTHONY. For Sylla's haste! O, whither wilt thou fly?

Tell me, my Sylla, what dost thou take in hand?

What wars are these thou stirrest up in Rome?

What fire is this is kindled by thy wrath?

A fire that must be quench'd by Romans' blood.

A war that will confound our empery; And last, an act of foul impiety.

Brute beasts nill break the mutual law of love, And birds affection will not violate: The senseless trees have concord 'mongst themselves, And stones agree in links of amity.

If they, my Sylla, brook not to have jar, What then are men, that 'gainst themselves do war?

Thou'lt say, my Sylla, honour stirs thee up; Is't honour to infringe the laws of Rome?

Thou'lt say, perhaps, the t.i.tles thou hast won It were dishonour for thee to forego; O, is there any height above the highest, Or any better than the best of all?

Art thou not consul? art thou not lord of Rome?

What greater t.i.tles should our Sylla have?

But thou wilt hence, thou'lt fight with Marius, The man the senate, ay, and Rome hath chose.

Think this, before thou never lift'st aloft, And lettest fall thy warlike hand adown, But thou dost raze and wound thy city Rome: And look, how many slaughter'd souls lie slain Under thy ensigns and thy conquering lance, So many murders mak'st thou of thyself.

SYLLA. Enough, my Anthony, for thy honey'd tongue Washed in a syrup of sweet conserves[109], Driveth confused thoughts through Sylla's mind: Therefore suffice thee, I may nor will not hear.

So farewell, Anthony; honour calls me hence: Sylla will fight for glory and for Rome.

[_Exit_ SYLLA _and his followers_.

L. MERULA. See, n.o.ble Anthony, the trustless state of rule, The stayless hold of matchless sovereignty: Now fortune beareth Rome into the clouds, To throw her down into the lowest h.e.l.ls; For they that spread her glory through the world, Are they that tear her proud, triumphant plumes: The heart-burning pride of proud Tarquinius Rooted from Rome the sway of kingly mace, And now this discord, newly set abroach, Shall raze our consuls and our senates down.

ANTHONY. Unhappy Rome, and Romans thrice accurs'd!

That oft with triumphs fill'd your city walls With kings and conquering rulers of the world, Now to eclipse, in top of all thy pride, Through civil discords and domestic broils.

O Romans, weep the tears of sad lament, And rend your sacred robes at this exchange, For fortune makes our Rome a banding ball[110], Toss'd from her hand to take the greater fall.

GRANIUS. O, whence proceed these foul, ambitious thoughts, That fire men's hearts and make them thirst for rule?

Hath sovereignty so much bewitch'd the minds Of Romans, that their former busied cares, Which erst did tire in seeking city's good, Must now be chang'd to ruin of her walls?

Must they, that rear'd her stately temples up, Deface the sacred places of their G.o.ds?

Then may we wail, and wring our wretched hands, Sith both our G.o.ds, our temples, and our walls, Ambition makes fell fortune's spiteful thralls.

[_Exeunt all_.

[_A great alarum. Let young_ MARIUS _chase_ POMPEY over the stage, and old_ MARIUS _chase_ LUCRETIUS.

_Then let enter three or four Soldiers, and his ancient with his colours, and_ SYLLA _after them with his hat in his hand: they offer to fly away_.

SYLLA. Why, whither fly you, Romans, What mischief makes this flight?

Stay, good my friends: stay, dearest countrymen!

1ST SOLDIER. Stay, let us hear what our Lord Sylla say'th.

SYLLA. What, will you leave your chieftains, Romans, then, And lose your honours in the gates of Rome?

What, shall our country see, and Sylla rue, These coward thoughts so fix'd and firm'd in you?

What, are you come from Capua to proclaim Your heartless treasons in this happy town?

What, will you stand and gaze with shameless looks, Whilst Marius' butchering knife a.s.sails our throats?

Are you the men, the hopes, the stays of state?

Are you the soldiers prest[111] for Asia?

Are you the wondered legions of the world, And will you fly these shadows of resist?

Well, Romans, I will perish through your pride, That thought by you to have return'd in pomp; And, at the least, your general shall prove, Even in his death, your treasons and his love.

Lo, this the wreath that shall my body bind, Whilst Sylla sleeps with honour in the field: And I alone, within these colours shut, Will blush your dastard follies in my death.

So, farewell, heartless soldiers and untrue, That leave your Sylla, who hath loved you. [_Exit_.

1ST SOLDIER. Why, fellow-soldiers, shall we fly the field, And carelessly forsake our general?

What, shall our vows conclude with no avail?

First die, sweet friends, and shed your purple blood, Before you lose the man that wills you good.

Then to it, brave Italians, out of hand!

Sylla, we come with fierce and deadly blows To venge thy wrongs and vanquish all thy foes.

[_Exeunt to the alarum_.

ACTUS SECUNDUS, SCENA PRIMA.

_Enter_ SYLLA _triumphant_; LUCRETIUS, POMPEY, _with Soldiers_.

SYLLA. You, Roman soldiers, fellow-mates in arms, The blindfold mistress of uncertain chance Hath turn'd these traitorous climbers from the top, And seated Sylla in the chiefest place-- The place beseeming Sylla and his mind.

For, were the throne, where matchless glory sits Empal'd with furies, threatening blood and death, Begirt with famine and those fatal fears, That dwell below amidst the dreadful vast, Tut, Sylla's sparkling eyes should dim with clear[112]

The burning brands of their consuming light, And master fancy with a forward mind, And mask repining fear with awful power: For men of baser metal and conceit Cannot conceive the beauty of my thought.

I, crowned with a wreath of warlike state, Imagine thoughts more greater than a crown, And yet befitting well a Roman mind.

Then, gentle ministers of all my hopes, That with your swords made way unto my wish, Hearken the fruits of your courageous fight.

In spite of all these Roman basilisks, That seek to quell us with their currish looks, We will to Pontus: we'll have gold, my hearts; Those oriental pearls shall deck our brows.

And you, my gentle friends, you Roman peers: Kind Pompey, worthy of a consul's name, You shall abide the father of the state, Whilst these brave lads, Lucretius, and I, In spite of all these brawling senators, Will, shall, and dare attempt on Asia, And drive Mithridates from out his doors.

POMPEY. Ay, Sylla, these are words of mickle worth, Fit for the master of so great a mind.

Now Rome must stoop, for Marius and his friends Have left their arms, and trust unto their heels.

SYLLA. But, Pompey, if our Spanish jennets' feet Have learnt to post it of their mother-wind, I hope to trip upon the greybeard's heels, Till I have cropp'd his shoulders from his head.

And for his son, the proud, aspiring boy, His beardless face and wanton, smiling brows, Shall, if I catch him, deck yond' capitol.

The father, son, the friends and soldiers all, That fawn on Marius, shall with fury fall.

LUCRETIUS. And what event shall all these troubles bring?

SYLLA. This--Sylla in fortune will exceed a king.

But, friends and soldiers, with dispersed bands Go seek out Marius' fond confederates: Some post along those unfrequented paths, That track by nooks unto the neighbouring sea: Murder me Marius, and maintain my life.

And that his favourites in Rome may learn The difference betwixt my fawn and frown, Go cut them short, and shed their hateful blood, To quench these furies of my froward mood.

[_Exit Soldiers_.

LUCRETIUS. Lo, Sylla, where our senators approach; Perhaps to 'gratulate thy good success.

_Enter_ ANTHONY, GRANIUS, LEPIDUS.

SYLLA. Ay, that _perhaps_ was fitly placed there: But, my Lucretius, these are cunning lords, Whose tongues are tipp'd with honey to deceive.

As for their hearts, if outward eyes may see them, The devil scarce with mischief might agree them.

LEPIDUS. Good fortune to our consul, worthy Sylla.