Volume Vii Part 22 (2/2)

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 pa.s.s 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 surpa.s.sing 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 a.s.s; 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.

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