Chapter XVIII: Epilogue: Spoken by Julio (1)

Lo here the sweets of grisly pale despair! These are the blossoms of this cursed tree, Such are the fruits of too much love and care, O'erwhelmed in the sense of misery. With violent hands he that his life doth end, His damned soul to endless night doth wend. Now resteth it that I discharge mine oath, To see th'unhappy lovers and the king Laid in one tomb. I would be very loth You should wait here to see this mournful thing: For I am sure, and do ye all to wit, Through grief wherein the lords of Salerne be, These funerals are not prepared yet: Nor do they think on that solemnity. As for the fury, ye must understand, Now she hath seen th'effect of her desire, She is departed, and hath left our land. Granting this end unto her hellish ire. Now humbly pray we, that our English dames May never lead their loves into mistrust; But that their honours may avoid the shames, That follow such as live in wanton lust. We know they bear them on their virtues bold, With blissful chastity so well content That, when their lives and loves abroad are told, All men admire their virtuous government; Worthy to live where fury never came, Worthy to live where love doth always see, Worthy to live in golden trump of fame, Worthy to live and honoured still to be. Thus end our sorrows with the setting sun: Now draw the curtains, for our scene is done.

R.W.

THE WOUNDS OF CIVIL WAR.

_EDITION.

The Wounds of Civill War. Lively set forth in the true Tragedies of Marius and Scilla. As it hath beene publiquely plaide in London, by the Right Honourable the Lord high Admirall his Servants. Written by Thomas Lodge, Gent_. O vita! misero longa, faelici brevis. _London, Printed by John Danter, and are to be sold at the signe of the Sunne in Paules Church-yarde_. 1594. 4to.

MR. COLLIER'S PREFACE.[89]

Thomas Lodge, in his "Alarum against Usurers," 1584, speaks of his "birth," and of "the offspring from whence he came," as if he were at least respectably descended; and on the authority of Anthony Wood, it has been asserted by all subsequent biographers that he was of a Lincolnshire family. [The fact is, that Lodge was the second son of Sir Thomas Lodge, Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1584, by his wife, the daughter of Sir William Laxton.] Thomas Salter, about the year 1580, dedicated his "Mirror of Modesty" to [the poet's mother, Lady Anne Lodge].

Langbaine seems to be under a mistake when he states that Lodge was of Cambridge. Wood claims him for the University of Oxford,[90] where he traces him as early as 1573, when he must have been about seventeen years old, if he were born, as is generally supposed, in 1556. We are told by himself that he was a Servitor of Trinity College, and that he was educated under Sir Edward Hoby. At what time and for what cause Lodge left Oxford is not known; but Stephen Gosson, in the dedication of his "Plays Confuted in Five Actions," printed about 1582,[91] accuses him of having become "a vagrant person, visited by the heavy hand of God," as if he had taken to the stage, and thereby had incurred the vengeance of heaven. In 1584, when Lodge answered Gosson, he was a student of Lincoln's Inn;[92] and to "his courteous friends, the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court," he dedicated his "Alarum against Usurers." He afterwards, as he informs Lord Hunsdon, in the epistle before his "Rosalynde," 1590, "fell from books to arms;" and he calls it "the work of a soldier and a scholar," adding that he had sailed with Captain Clarke to the islands of Terceras and the Canaries. In 1596, he published his "Margarite of America," and he mentions that it was written in the Straits of Magellan, on a voyage with Cavendish. To this species of vagrancy, however, Gosson did not refer.

That Lodge was vagrant in his pursuits we have sufficient evidence; for, after having perhaps been upon the stage, having entered himself at Lincoln's Inn, having become a soldier, and having sailed with Clarke and Cavendish, he went, according to Wood, to study medicine at Avignon.[93] This change, if it took place at all, which may admit of doubt,[94] did not occur until after 1596. In 1595 his "Fig for Momus" appeared. Besides Satires, it contains Epistles and Eclogues; and in one of the latter Lodge speaks in his own person, under the character of "Golde" (the same letters that compose his name), and there states his determination no longer to pursue ill-rewarded poetry--

"Which sound rewards, since this neglected time,
Repines to yield to men of high desert,
I'll cease to ravel out my wits in rhyme,
For such who make so base account of art;
And since by wit there is no means to climb,
I'll hold the plough awhile, and ply the cart;
And if my muse to wonted course return,
I'll write and judge, peruse, commend and burn."

The dedication of his "Wit's Misery, and the World's Madness," is dated "from my house, at Low Layton, 5th November 1596."

The principal reasons for supposing that Lodge studied medicine are the existence of a "Treatise of the Plague," published by "Thomas Lodge, Doctor in Physic," in 1603, and of a collection of medical recipes in MS., called "The Poor Man's Legacy," addressed to the Countess of Arundel, and sold among the books of the Duke of Norfolk.[95] [There can be little or no question that the physician and poet were one and the same. In "England's Parnassus," 1600, he is called indifferently Thomas Lodge and Doctor Lodge.] The author of the "Treatise of the Plague" expressly tells the Lord Mayor of London, in the dedication, that he was "bred and brought up" in the city. Thomas Heywood, in his "Troja Britannica," 1609, enumerates the celebrated physicians then living--

"As famous Butler, Pedy, Turner, Poe,
Atkinson, Lyster, _Lodge_, who still survive."--C. 3.

It hardly deserves remark that Lodge is placed last in this list; but had he been the same individual who had written for the stage, was the friend of so many dramatists, and was so well known as a lyric poet, it seems likely that Heywood would have said more about him.[96] It is a singular coincidence, that having written how to prevent and cure the plague, he should die of that disease during the great mortality of 1625. Wood's expressions on this point, however, are not decisive: "He made his last _exit_ (of the plague, I think) in September 1625, leaving then behind him a widow called Joan." It has been conjectured [rather foolishly] that he was a Roman Catholic, from a statement made by one of his biographers that, while he practised medicine in London, he was much patronised by persons of that persuasion.

There are but two existing dramatic productions on the title-pages of which the name of Lodge is found:[97] the one he wrote alone, and the other in partnership with Robert Greene:--

(1.) The Wounds of Civill War. Lively set forth in the true Tragedies of Marius and Scilla, &c. Written by Thomas Lodge, Gent. 1594, 4to.

(2.) A Looking Glasse for London and Englande. Made by Thomas Lodge, Gentleman, and Robert Greene, _in Artibus Magister_. 1594, 1598, 1602, 1617, all in 4to.[98]

The most remarkable [of his works], and that which has been most often reprinted, is his "Rosalynde" which, as is well known, Shakespeare closely followed in "As You Like It."[99]

Anterior to the date of any of his other pieces must have been Lodge's defence of stage-plays, because Stephen Gosson replied to it about 1582. It was long thought, on the authority of Prynne, that Lodge's tract was called "The Play of Plays," but Mr Malone ascertained that to be a different production. The only copy of Lodge's pamphlet seen by Mr Malone was without a title, and it was probably the same that was sold among the books of Topham Beauclerc in 1781. It is spoken of in "The French Academy" [1589] as having "lately passed the press;" but Lodge himself, in his "Alarum against Usurers," very clearly accounts for its extreme rarity: he says, "by reason of the slenderness of the subject (because it was in defence of plaies and play-makers) the godly and reverent that had to deal in the cause, misliking it, forbad the publishing;" and he charges Gosson with "comming by a private unperfect coppye," on which he framed his answer, entitled, "Plays confuted in Five Actions."

Mr Malone ("Shakespeare," by Boswell, ii. 250) contends that Spenser alludes to Lodge, in his "Tears of the Muses," under the name of Alcon, in the following lines:--

"And there is pleasing Alcon, could he raise
His tunes from lays to matters of more skill;"

and he adds that Spenser calls Lodge Alcon, from one of the characters in "A Looking Glasse for London and Englande;" but this argument would apply just as much to Lodge's coadjutor Greene. Mr Malone further argues that Lodge, roused by this applause (which he repaid in his "Phillis"), produced not long afterwards a "matter of more skill," in "The Wounds of Civil War."

THE MOST LAMENTABLE AND TRUE

TRAGEDIES OF

MARIUS AND SYLLA.[100]

_Enter on the Capitol_ SULPITIUS, _Tribune_, CAIUS MARIUS,
Q. POMPEY, _Consul_, JUNIUS BRUTUS, LUCRETIUS, CAIUS GRANIUS,
LECTORIUS, LUCIUS MERULA, _Jupiter's Priest, and_ CINNA;
_whom placed, and their Lictors before them with their rods
and axes_, SULPITIUS _beginneth_.

SULPITIUS. Grave senators, and fathers of this state, Our strange protractions and unkind delays Where weighty wars doth call us out to fight, Our factious wits, to please aspiring lords, (You see) have added power unto our foes, And hazarded rich Phrygia and Bithinia, With all our Asian holds and cities too. Thus Sylla seeking to be general, Who is invested in our consul's pall,[101] Hath forced murders in a quiet state; The cause whereof even Pompey may complain, Who, seeking to advance a climbing friend, Hath lost by death a sweet and courteous son. Who now in Asia but Mithridates Laughs at these fond dissensions I complain? While we, in wrangling for a general, Forsake our friends, forestal our forward war, And leave our legions full of dalliance: Waiting our idle wills at Capua. Fie, Romans! shall the glories of your names, The wondrous beauty of this capitol, Perish through Sylla's insolence and pride; As if that Rome were robb'd of true renown, And destitute of warlike champions now? Lo, here the man, the rumour of whose fame, Hath made Iberia tremble and submit: See Marius, that in managing estate, Though many cares and troubles he hath pass'd, And spent his youth, upon whose reverend head The milk-white pledge of wisdom sweetly spreads. He, six times consul, fit for peace or war, Sits drooping here, content to brook disgrace, Who glad to fight through follies of his foes Sighs for your shame, whilst you abide secure. And I that see and should recure these wrongs, Through Pompey's late vacation and delay, Have left to publish him for general, That merits better titles far than these. But, nobles, now the final day is come, When I, your tribune, studying for renown, Pronounce and publish Marius general, To lead our legions against Mithridates, And crave, grave fathers, signs of your content.

Q. POMPEY. Believe me, noble Romans and grave senators, This strange election, and this new-made law Will witness our unstable government, And dispossess Rome of her empery: For although Marius be renown'd in arms, Famous for prowess, and grave in warlike drifts, Yet may the sunshine of his former deeds Nothing eclipse our Sylla's dignity. By lot and by election he was made Chief general against Mithridates, And shall we then abridge him of that rule? 'Twere injury to Sylla and to Rome: Nor would the height of his all-daring mind Brook to the death so vile and foul disgrace.

J. BRUTUS. Why, Pompey, as if the senate had not power To appoint, dispose, and change their generals! Rome shall belike be bound to Sylla's rule, Whose haughty pride and swelling thoughts puff'd-up Foreshows the reaching to proud Tarquin's state. Is not his ling'ring to our Roman loss At Capua, where he braves it out with feasts, Made known, think you, unto the senate here? Yes, Pompey, yes; and hereof are we sure, If Romans' state on Sylla's pride should lie, Rome's conquests would to Pontus' regions fly; Therefore, grave and renowned senators, (Pillars that bear and hold our rule aloft, You stately, true, and rich pyramids) Descend into the depth of your estates; Then shall you find that Sylla is more fit To rule in Rome domestical affairs, Than have the conquest of Bithinia, Which, if once got, he'll but by death forego: Therefore I say [let] Marius [be] our general.

LUCRETIUS. So thus we strive abroad to win renown, And nought regard at home our waning states. Brutus, I say, the many brave exploits, The warlike acts that Sylla has achiev'd Show him a soldier and a Roman too, Whose care is more for country than himself. Sylla nill brook[102], that in so many wars, So hard adventures and so strange extremes, Hath borne the palm and prize of victory, Thus with dishonour to give up his charge. Sylla hath friends and soldiers at command, That first will make the towers of Rome to shake, And force the stately capitol to dance, Ere any rob him of his just renown. Then we that through the Caspian shores have run, And spread with ships the Oriental sea, At home shall make a murder of our friends, And massacre our dearest countrymen.

LECTORIUS. The power of Sylla nought will 'vail 'gainst Rome; And let me die, Lucretius, ere I see Our senate dread for any private man. Therefore, Renown'd Sulpitius, send for Sylla back: Let Marius lead our men in Asia.

L. MERULA. The law the senate wholly doth affirm: Let Marius lead our men in Asia.

ClNNA. Cinna affirms the senate's censure just, And saith let Marius lead the legions forth.

C. GRANIUS. Honour and victory follow Marius' steps! For him doth Granius wish to fight for Rome.

SULPITIUS. Why then, you sage and ancient sires of Rome, Sulpitius here again doth publish forth, That Marius by the senate here is made Chief general to lead the legions out Against Mithridates and his competitors. Now victory, for honour of Rome, follow Marius!

[_Here let_ MARIUS _rouse himself_.

MARIUS. Sage and imperial senators of Rome, Not without good advisement have you seen Old Marius silent during your discourse: Yet not for that he fear'd to plead his cause, Or raise his honour trodden down by age, But that his words should not allure his friends To stand on stricter terms for his behoof. Six times the senate by election hath Made Marius consul over warlike Rome, And in that space nor Rome nor all the world Could ever say that Marius was untrue. These silver hairs, that hang upon my face, Are witnesses of my unfeigned zeal. The Cymbrians, that erewhile invaded France, And held the Roman empire in disdain, Lay all confounded under Marius' sword: Fierce Scipio, the mirror once of Rome, Whose loss as yet my inward soul bewails, Being ask'd who should succeed and bear his rule, Even this, quoth he, shall Scipio's armour bear; And therewithal clapp'd me upon the back.[103] If then, grave lords, my former-passed youth Was spent in bringing honours unto[104] Rome, Let then my age and latter date of years, Be sealed up for honour unto Rome.

_Here enter_ SYLLA, _with Captains and Soldiers_.

SULPITIUS. Sylla, what mean these arms and warlike troops? These glorious ensigns and these fierce alarm[s] 'Tis proudly done to brave the capitol!

SYLLA. These arms, Sulpitius, are not borne for hate, But maintenance of my confirmed state: I come to Rome with no seditious thoughts, Except I find too froward injuries.

SULPITIUS. But wisdom would you did forbear To yield these slight suspicions of contempt, Where as the senate studieth high affairs.

SYLLA. What serious matters have these lords in hand?

SULPITIUS. The senators with full decree appoint Old Marius for their captain-general, To lead thy legions into Asia, And fight against the fierce Mithridates.

SYLLA. To Marius? Jolly stuff! Why then I see Your lordships mean to make a babe of me.

J. BRUTUS. 'Tis true, Sylla, the senate hath agreed That Marius shall those bands and legions bear, Which you now hold, against Mithridates.

SYLLA. Marius should[105] lead them then, if Sylla said not no; And I should be a consul's shadow then. Trustless senators and ungrateful Romans, For all the honours I have done to Rome, For all the spoils I brought within her walls, Thereby for to enrich and raise her pride, Repay you me with this ingratitude? You know, unkind, that Sylla's wounded helm Was ne'er hung up once, or distain'd with rust: The Marcians that before me fell amain, And like to winter-hail on every side, Unto the city Nuba I pursued, And for your sakes were thirty thousand slain. The Hippinians and the Samnites Sylla brought As tributaries unto famous Rome: Ay, where did Sylla ever draw his sword, Or lift his warlike hand above his head For Romans' cause, but he was conqueror? And now, unthankful, seek you to disgrade And tear the plumes that Sylla's sword hath won? Marius, I tell thee Sylla is the man Disdains to stoop or vail his pride to thee. Marius, I say thou may'st nor shalt not have The charge that unto Sylla doth belong, Unless thy sword could tear it from my heart, Which in a thousand folds impales[106] the same.

MARIUS. And, Sylla, hereof be thou full assur'd: The honour, whereto mine undaunted mind And this grave senate hath enhanced me, Thou nor thy followers shall derogate. The space[107] of years that Marius hath o'erpass'd In foreign broils and civil mutinies, Hath taught him this: that one unbridled foe My former fortunes never shall o'ergo.

SYLLA. Marius, I smile at these thy foolish words; And credit me, should laugh outright, I fear, If that I knew not how thy froward age Doth make thy sense as feeble as thy joints.

MARIUS. Sylla, Sylla, Marius' years have taught Him how to pluck so proud a younker's plumes; And know, these hairs, that dangle down my face, In brightness like the silver Rhodope, Shall add so haughty courage to my mind, And rest such piercing objects 'gainst thine eyes, That mask'd in folly age shall force thee stoop.

SYLLA. And by my hand I swear, ere thou shalt 'maze me so, My soul shall perish but I'll have thy beard. Say, grave senators, shall Sylla be your general?

SULPITIUS. No: the senate, I, and Rome herself agrees There's none but Marius shall be general. Therefore, Sylla, these daring terms unfit Beseem not thee before the capitol.

SYLLA. Beseem not me? Senators, advise you. Sylla hath vowed, whose vows the heavens record, Whose oaths have pierc'd and search'd the deepest vast, Ay, and whose protestations reign on earth: This capitol, wherein your glories shine, Was ne'er so press'd and throng'd with scarlet gowns As Rome shall be with heaps of slaughtered souls, Before that Sylla yield his titles up. I'll make[108] her streets, that peer into the clouds, Burnish'd with gold and ivory pillars fair, Shining with jasper, jet, and ebony, All like the palace of the morning sun, To swim within a sea of purple blood, Before I lose the name of general.

MARIUS. These threats against thy country and these lords, Sylla, proceed from forth a traitor's heart; Whose head I trust to see advanced up On highest top of all this capitol, As erst was many of thy progeny, Before thou vaunt thy victories in Rome.

SYLLA. Greybeard, if so thy heart and tongue agree, Draw forth thy legions and thy men at arms; Rear up thy standard and thy steeled crest, And meet with Sylla in the fields of Mars, And try whose fortune makes him general.

MARIUS. I take thy word: Marius will meet thee there, And prove thee, Sylla, traitor unto Rome, And all that march under thy trait'rous wings. Therefore they that love the Senate and Marius, Now follow him.

SYLLA. And all that love Sylla come down to him: For the rest, let them follow Marius, And the devil himself be their captain.

[_Here let the Senate rise and cast away their gowns,
having their swords by their sides. Exit_ MARIUS, _and
with him_ SULPITIUS, JUNIUS, BRUTUS, LECTORIUS.

Q. POMPEY. Sylla, I come to thee.

LUCRETIUS. Sylla, Lucretius will die with thee.

SYLLA. Thanks, my noble lords of Rome.

[_Here let them go down, and_ SYLLA _offers to go
forth, and_ ANTHONY _calls him back_:

ANTHONY. Stay, Sylla; hear Anthony breathe forth The pleading plaints of sad declining Rome.

SYLLA. Anthony, thou know'st thy honey words do pierce And move the mind of Sylla to remorse: Yet neither words nor pleadings now must serve: When as mine honour calls me forth to fight: Therefore, sweet Anthony, be short for Sylla's haste.

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 titles 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 titles 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, noble 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 hells; 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 gods? Then may we wail, and wring our wretched hands, Sith both our gods, 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 assails 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.

SYLLA. And why not general 'gainst the King of Pontus?

GRANIUS. And general against the King of Pontus.

SYLLA. Sirrah, your words are good, your thoughts are ill. Each milkwhite hair amid this mincing beard, Compar'd with millions of thy treacherous thoughts, Would change their hue through vigour of thy hate. But, did not pity make my fury thrall, This sword should finish hate, thy life, and all. I prythee, Granius, how doth Marius?

GRANIUS. As he that bides a thrall to thee and fate: Living in hope, as I and others do, To catch good fortune, and to cross thee too.

SYLLA. Both blunt and bold, but too much mother-wit. To play with fire, where fury streams about: Curtail your tale, fond man, cut off the rest; But here I will dissemble for the best.

GRANIUS. Sylla, my years have taught me to discern Betwixt ambitious pride and princely zeal; And from thy youth these peers of Rome have mark'd A rash revenging humour[113] in thy brain. Thy tongue adorn'd with flowing eloquence, And yet I see imprinted in thy brows A fortunate but froward governance. And though thy rival Marius, mated late By backward working of his wretched fate, Is fall'n; yet, Sylla, mark what I have seen Even here in Rome. The fencer Spectacus Hath been as fortunate as thou thyself; But when that Crassus' sword assayed his crest, The fear of death did make him droop for woe.

SYLLA. You saw in Rome this brawling fencer die, When Spectacus by Crassus was subdued. Why so? but, sir, I hope you will apply, And say like Spectacus that I shall die. Thus peevish eld, discoursing by a fire, Amidst their cups will prate how men aspire. Is this the greeting, Romans, that you give Unto the patron of your monarchy? Lucretius, shall I play a pretty jest?

LUCRETIUS. What Sylla will, what Roman dare withstand?

SYLLA. A brief and pleasing answer, by my head. Why, tell me, Granius, dost thou talk in sport?

GRANIUS. No, Sylla, my discourse is resolute. Not coin'd to please thy fond and cursed thoughts: For were my tongue betray'd with pleasing words To feed the humours of thy haughty mind, I rather wish the rot should root it out.

SYLLA. The bravest brawler that I ever heard. But, soldiers, since I see he is oppress'd With crooked choler, and our artists teach That fretting blood will press through open'd veins, Let him that has the keenest sword arrest The greybeard, and cut off his head in jest. Soldiers, lay hands on Granius.

GRANIUS. Is this the guerdon[114] then of good advice?

SYLLA. No, but the means to make fond men more wise. Tut, I have wit, and carry warlike tools, To charm the scolding prate of wanton fools. Tell me of fencers and a tale of fate! No, Sylla thinks of nothing but a state.

GRANIUS. Why, Sylla, I am arm'd the worst to try.

SYLLA, I pray thee then, Lucretius, let him die.

[_Exeunt with_ GRANIUS.

Beshrew me, lords, but in this jolly vein 'Twere pity but the prating fool were slain. I fear me Pluto will be wrath with me, For to detain so grave a man as he.

ANTHONY. But seek not, Sylla, in this quiet state To work revenge upon an aged man, A senator, a sovereign of this town.

SYLLA. The more the cedar climbs, the sooner down: And, did I think the proudest man in Rome Would wince at that which I have wrought or done, I would and can control his insolence. Why, senators, is this the true reward, Wherewith you answer princes for their pain, As when this sword hath made our city free, A braving mate should thus distemper me? But, Lepidus and fellow-senators, I am resolved, and will not brook your taunts: Who wrongeth Sylla, let him look for stripes.

ANTHONY. Ay, but the milder passions show the man; For as the leaf doth beautify the tree, The pleasant flow'rs bedeck the painted spring, Even so in men of greatest reach and power A mild and piteous thought augments renown. Old Anthony did never see, my lord, A swelling show'r, that did continue long: A climbing tower that did not taste the wind: A wrathful man not wasted with repent. I speak of love, my Sylla, and of joy, To see how fortune lends a pleasant gale Unto the spreading sails of thy desires; And, loving thee, must counsel thee withal: For, as by cutting fruitful vines increase, So faithful counsels work a prince's peace.

SYLLA. Thou honey-talking father, speak thy mind.

ANTHONY. My Sylla, scarce those tears are dried up, That Roman matrons wept to see this war: Along the holy streets the hideous groans Of murdered men infect the weeping air: Thy foes are fled, not overtaken yet, And doubtful is the hazard of this war: Yea, doubtful is the hazard of this war, For now our legions draw their wasteful swords To murder whom? Even Roman citizens! To conquer whom? Even Roman citizens! Then, if that Sylla love these citizens, If care of Rome, if threat of foreign foes, If fruitful counsels of thy forward friends, May take effect, go fortunate, and drive The King of Pontus out of Asia; Lest, while we dream on civil mutinies, Our wary foes assail our city walls.

POMPEY. My long-concealed thoughts, Mark Anthony, Must seek discovery through thy pliant words. Believe me, Sylla, civil mutinies Must not obscure thy glories and our names. Then, sith that factious Marius is suppress'd, Go spread thy colours 'midst the Asian fields; Meanwhile myself will watch this city's weal.

SYLLA. Pompey, I know thy love, I mark thy words, And, Anthony, thou hast a pleasing vein; But, senators, I harbour[115] in my head With every thought of honour some revenge.

_Enter LUCRETIUS with the head_.

Speak, what, shall Sylla be your general?

LEPIDUS. We do decree that Sylla shall be general?

SYLLA. And wish you Sylla's weal and honour too?

ANTHONY. We wish both Sylla's weal and honour too.

SYLLA. Then take away the scandal of this state, Banish the name of tribune out of town; Proclaim false Marius and his other friends Foemen and traitors to the state of Rome, And I will wend and work so much by force, As I will master false Mithridates.

LEPIDUS. The name of tribune hath continued long.

SYLLA. So shall not Lepidus, if he withstand me. Sirrah, you see the head of Granius: Watch you his hap, unless you change your words. Pompey, now please me: Pompey, grant my suit.

POMPEY. Lictors, proclaim this our undaunted doom. We will that Marius and his wretched sons: His friends Sulpitius, Claudius, and the rest Be held for traitors, and acquit the men, That shall endanger their unlucky lives; And henceforth tribune's name and state shall cease. Grave senators, how like you this decree?

LEPIDUS. Even as our consuls wish, so let it be.

SYLLA. Then, Lepidus, all friends in faith for me, So leave I Rome to Pompey and my friends, Resolv'd to manage those our Asian wars. Frolic, brave soldiers, we must foot it now: Lucretius, you shall bide the brunt with me. Pompey, farewell, and farewell, Lepidus. Mark Anthony, I leave thee to thy books; Study for Rome and Sylla's royalty. But, by my sword, I wrong this greybeard's head; Go, sirrah, place it on the capitol: A just promotion fit for Sylla's foe. Lordings, farewell: come, soldiers, let us go.

[_Exit_.

POMPEY. Sylla, farewell, and happy be thy chance, Whose war both Rome and Romans must advance.

[_Exeunt Senators_.

_Enter the Magistrates of Minturnum with_ MARIUS
_very melancholy_: LUCIUS FAVORINUS, PAUSANIUS,
_with some attendants_.

PAUSANIUS. My lord, the course of your unstayed fate, Made weak through that your late unhappy fight, Withdraws our wills that fain would work your weal: For long experience and the change of times, The innocent suppressions of the just, In leaning to forsaken men's relief, Doth make us fear, lest our unhappy town Should perish through the angry Roman's sword.

MARIUS. Lords of Minturnum, when I shap'd my course, To fly the danger of pursuing death, I left my friends, and all alone attain'd, In hope of succours, to this little town, Relying on your courtesies and truth. What foolish fear doth then amaze you thus?

FAVORINUS. O Marius, thou thyself, thy son, thy friends, Are banished, and exiles out of Rome, Proclaim'd for traitors, reft of your estates, Adjudg'd to death with certain warrantise: Should then so small a town, my lord, as this Hazard their fortunes to supply your wants?

MARIUS. Why, citizens, and what is Marius? I tell you, not so base as to despair, Yea, able to withstand ingratitudes. Tell me of foolish laws, decreed at Rome To please the angry humours of my foe! Believe me, lords, I know and am assur'd, That magnanimity can never fear, And fortitude so conquer silly fate, As Sylla, when he hopes to have my head, May hap ere long on sudden lose his own.

PAUSANIUS. A hope beseeming Marius; but, I fear, Too strange to have a short and good event.

MARIUS. Why, Sir Pausanius, have you not beheld Campania plains fulfill'd with greater foes, Than is that wanton milk-sop, nature's scorn. Base-minded men to live in perfect hope, Whose thoughts are shut within your cottage eaves, Refuse not Marius, that must favour you: For these are parts of unadvised men, With present fear to lose a perfect friend, That can, will, may control, command, subdue, That braving boy, that thus bewitcheth you.

FAVORINUS. How gladly would we succour you, my lord, But that we fear--

MARIUS. What? the moonshine in the water! Thou wretched stepdame of my fickle state, Are these the guerdons of the greatest minds? To make them hope and yet betray their hap, To make them climb to overthrow them straight? Accurs'd thy wreak[116], thy wrath, thy bale, thy weal, That mak'st me sigh the sorrows that I feel! Untrodden paths my feet shall rather trace, Than wrest my succours from inconstant hands: Rebounding rocks shall rather ring my ruth, Than these Campanian piles, where terrors bide: And nature, that hath lift my throne so high, Shall witness Marius' triumphs, if he die. But she, that gave the lictor's rod and axe To wait my six times consulship in Rome, Will not pursue where erst she flattered so. Minturnum then, farewell, for I must go; But think for to repent you of your no.

PAUSANIUS. Nay stay, my lord, and deign in private here To wait a message of more better worth: Your age and travels must have some relief; And be not wrath, for greater men than we Have feared Rome and Roman tyranny.

MARIUS. You talk it now like men confirmed in faith. Well, let me try the fruits of your discourse, For care my mind and pain my body wrongs.

PAUSANIUS. Then, Favorinus, shut his lordship up Within some secret chamber in the state. Meanwhile, we will consult to keep him safe, And work some secret means for his supply.

MARIUS. Be trusty, lords; if not, I can but die.
[_Exit_ MARIUS.

PAUSANIUS. Poor, hapless Roman, little wottest thou The weary end of thine oppressed life.

LUCIUS. Why, my Pausanius, what imports these words?

PAUSANIUS. O Lucius, age hath printed in my thoughts A memory of many troubles pass'd. The greatest towns and lords of Asia Have stood on tickle terms through simple truth: The Rhodian records well can witness this. Then, to prevent our means of overthrow, Find out some stranger, that may suddenly Enter the chamber, where as Marius lies, And cut him short; the present of whose head Shall make the Romans praise us for our truth, And Sylla prest to grant us privilege.

LUCIUS. A barbarous act to wrong the men that trust.

PAUSANIUS. In country's cause injustice proveth just. Come, Lucius, let not silly thought of right Subject our city to the Roman's might: For why you know in Marius only end Rome will reward, and Sylla will befriend.

LUCIUS. Yet all successions will us discommend.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ MARIUS _the younger_; CETHEGUS, LECTORIUS,
_with Roman Lords and Soldiers_.

YOUNG MARIUS. The wayward lady of this wicked world, That leads in luckless triumph wretched men, My Roman friends, hath forced our desires, And fram'd our minds to brook too base relief. What land or Lybian desert is unsought To find my father Marius and your friend? Yea, they whom true relent could never touch-- These fierce Numidians, hearing our mishaps, Weep floods of moan to wail our wretched fates. Thus we, that erst with terrors did attaint The Bactrian bounds, and in our Roman wars Enforc'd the barbarous borderers of the Alps To tremble with the terrors of our looks, Now fly, poor men, affrighted without harms: Seeking amidst the desert rocks and dens For him, that whilom in our capitol Even with a beck commanded Asia. Thou woful son of such a famous man, Unsheathe thy sword, conduct these warlike men To Rome, unhappy mistress of our harms: And there, since tyrants' power hath thee oppress'd, And robb'd thee of thy father, friends, and all, So die undaunted, killing of thy foes, That were the offspring of these wretched woes.

LECTORIUS. Why, how now, Marius, will you mate us thus, That with content adventure for your love? Why, noble youth, resolve yourself on this, That son and father both have friends in Rome, That seek old Marius' rest and your relief.

YOUNG MARIUS. Lectorius, friends are geason[117] now-a-days, And grow to fume, before they taste the fire. Adversities bereaving man's avails, They fly like feathers dallying in the wind: They rise like bubbles in a stormy rain, Swelling in words, and flying faith and deeds.

CETHEGUS. How fortunate art thou, my lovely lord, That in thy youth may'st reap the fruits of age; And having lost occasion's holdfast now, May'st learn hereafter how to entertain her well. But sudden hopes do swarm about my heart: Be merry, Romans; see, where from the coast A weary messenger doth post him fast.

_Enter_ CINNA'S SLAVE, _with a letter enclosed,
posting in haste_.

LECTORIUS. It should be Cinna's slave, or else I err, For in his forehead I behold the scar, Wherewith he marketh still his barbarous swains.

YOUNG MARIUS. O, stay him, good Lectorius, for me-seems His great post-haste some pleasure should present.

LECTORIUS. Sirrah, art thou of Rome?

SLAVE. Perhaps, sir, no.

LECTORIUS. Without perhaps, say, sirrah, is it so?

SLAVE. This is Lectorius, Marius' friend, I trow; Yet were I best to learn the certainty, Lest some dissembling foes should me descry. [_Aside_.

YOUNG MARIUS. Sirrah, leave off this foolish dalliance, Lest with my sword I wake you from your trance.

SLAVE. O happy man, O labours well-achiev'd! How hath this chance my weary limbs revived: O noble Marius! O princely Marius!

YOUNG MARIUS. What means this peasant by his great rejoice?

SLAVE. O worthy Roman, many months have past Since Cinna, now the consul and my lord, Hath sent me forth to seek thy friends and thee. All Lybia, with our Roman presidents, Numidia, full of unfrequented ways, These weary limbs have trod to seek you out, And now, occasion pitying of my pains, I late arriv'd upon this wished shore, Found out a sailor born in Capua, That told me how your lordship pass'd this way.

YOUNG MARIUS. A happy labour, worthy some reward. How fares thy master? What's the news at Rome?

SLAVE. Pull out the pike from off this javelin-top, And there are tidings for these lords and thee.

YOUNG MARIUS. A policy beseeming Cinna well: Lectorius, read, and break these letters up.[118]

LETTER.

To his Honourable friend Marius the younger, greeting.

_Being consul (for the welfare both of father and son, with other thy accomplices), I have, under an honest policy, since my instalment in the consulship, caused all Sylla's friends that were indifferent, with the other neighbouring cities, to revolt. Octavius, my fellow-consul, with the rest of the senate, mistrusting me, and hearing how I sought to unite the old citizens with the new, hath wrought much trouble, but to no effect. I hope the soldiers of Capua shall follow our faction, for Sylla, hearing of these hurly-burlies, is hasting homeward, very fortunate in his wars against Mithridates. And it is to be feared that some of his friends here have certified him of my proceedings, and purpose to restore you. Cethegus and Lectorius I hear say are with you. Censorinus and Albinovanus will shortly visit you. Therefore haste and seek out your father, who is now, as I hear, about Minturnum. Levy what power you can with all expedition, and stay not_.

Rome, the 5 Kalends of December.
_Your unfeigned friend,_
CINNA, _Consul_.

YOUNG MARIUS. Yea, fortune, shall young Marius climb aloft? Then woe to my repining foes in Rome! And if I live, sweet queen of change, thy shrines Shall shine with beauty 'midst the capitol. Lectorius, tell me what were best be done?

LECTORIUS. To sea, my lord; seek your warlike sire: Send back this peasant with your full pretence, And think already that our pains have end, Since Cinna, with his followers, is your friend.

YOUNG MARIUS. Yea, Romans, we will furrow through the foam Of swelling floods, and to the sacred twins Make sacrifice, to shield our ships from storms. Follow me, lords; come, gentle messenger, Thou shalt have gold and glory for thy pains.

[_Exeunt_.

ACTUS TERTIUS. SCENA PRIMA.

_Enter_ CINNA, OCTAVIUS, ANTHONY, _Lictors, Citizens_.

CINNA. Upbraiding senators, bewitch'd with wit, That term true justice innovation; You ministers of Sylla's mad conceits, Will consuls, think you, stoop to your controls? These younger citizens, my fellow-lords, Bound to maintain both Marius and his son, Crave but their due, and will be held as good For privilege as those of elder age; For they are men conform'd to feats of arms, That have both wit and courage to command. These favourites of Octavius, that[119] with age And palsies shake their javelins in their hands, Like heartless men attainted all with fear: And should they then overtop the youth? No, nor this consul, nor Mark Anthony, Shall make my followers faint or lose their right; But I will have them equal with the best.

ANTHONY. Why then the senate's name, whose reverend rule Hath blazed our virtues 'midst the western isle, Must be obscur'd by Cinna's forced power. O citizens! are laws of country left? Is justice banish'd from this capitol? Must we, poor fathers, see your drooping bands Enter the sacred synod of this state? O brutish fond presumptions of this age! Rome! would the mischiefs might obscure my life, So I might counsel consuls to be wise. Why, countrymen, wherein consists this strife? Forsooth the younger citizens will rule; The old men's heads are dull and addle now; And in elections youth will bear the sway. O Cinna, see I not the woful fruits Of these ambitious stratagems begun? Each flattering tongue that dallieth pretty words Shall change our fortunes and our states at once. Had I ten thousand tongues to talk the care, So many eyes to weep their woful miss, So many pens to write these many wrongs, My tongue your thoughts, my eyes your tears, should move, My pen your pains by reason should approve.

CINNA. Why, Anthony, seal up those sugar'd lips, For I will bring my purpose to effect.

ANTHONY. Doth Cinna like to interrupt me, then?

CINNA. Ay, Cinna, sir, will interrupt you now. I tell thee, Mark, old Marius is at hand, The very patron of this happy law, Who will revenge thy cunning eloquence.

ANTHONY. I talk not, I, to please or him or thee, But what I speak, I think and practise too: 'Twere better Sylla learnt to mend in Rome, Than Marius come to tyrannise in Rome.

OCTAVIUS. Nay, Marius shall not tyrannise in Rome, Old citizens; as Sylla late ordain'd, King Tullius' laws shall take their full effect: The best and aged men shall in their choice, Both bear the day, and firm [th'] election.

CINNA. O brave! Octavius, you will beard me then, The elder consul and old Marius' friend; And these Italian freemen must be wrong'd. First shall the fruit of all thine honours fail, And this my poniard shall despatch thy life.

LEPIDUS. Such insolence was never seen in Rome: Nought wanteth here but name to make a king.

OCTAVIUS. Strike, villain, if thou list, for I am prest To make as deep a furrow in thy breast!

YOUNG CITIZEN. The young men's voices shall prevail, my lords.

OLD CITIZEN. And we will firm our honours by our bloods.

[_Thunder_.

ANTHONY. O false ambitious pride in young and old! Hark, how the heavens our follies hath controll'd.

OLD CITIZEN. What, shall we yield for this religious fear?

ANTHONY. If not religious fear, what may repress These wicked passions, wretched citizens? O Rome, poor Rome, unmeet for these misdeeds, I see contempt of heaven will breed a cross. Sweet Cinna, govern rage with reverence. [_Thunder_. O fellow-citizens, be more advis'd!

LEPIDUS. We charge you, consuls, now dissolve the court; The gods condemn this brawl and civil jars.

OCTAVIUS. We will submit our honours to their wills: You, ancient citizens, come follow me.

[_Exit_ OCTAVIUS; _with him_ ANTHONY _and_ LEPIDUS.

CINNA. High Jove himself hath done too much for thee, Else should this blade abate thy royalty. Well, young Italian citizens, take heart, He is at hand that will maintain your right; That, entering in these fatal gates of Rome, Shall make them tremble that disturb you now. You of Preneste and of Formiae, With other neighbouring cities in Campania, Prepare to entertain and succour Marius.

YOUNG CITIZEN. For him we live, for him we mean to die.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ OLD MARIUS _with his_ KEEPER _and two_ SOLDIERS.

MARIUS. Have these Minturnians, then, so cruelly Presum'd so great injustice 'gainst their friends?

JAILER. Ay, Marius, all our nobles have decreed To send thy head a present unto Rome.

MARIUS. A Tantal's present it will prove, my friend, Which with a little smarting stress will end Old Marius' life, when Rome itself at last Shall rue my loss, and then revenge my death. But tell me, jailer, could'st thou be content, In being Marius, for to brook this wrong.

JAILER. The high estate your lordship once did wield, The many friends that fawn'd, when fortune smil'd, Your great promotions and your mighty wealth, These, were I Marius, would amate me so,[120] As loss of them would vex me more than death.

MARIUS. Is lordship then so great a bliss, my friend?

JAILER. No title may compare with princely rule.

MARIUS. Are friends so faithful pledges of delight?

JAILER. What better comforts than are faithful friends?

MARIUS. Is wealth a mean to lengthen life's content?

JAILER. Where great possessions bide, what care can touch?

MARIUS. These stales[121] of fortune are the common plagues, That still mislead the thoughts of simple men. The shepherd-swain that, 'midst his country-cot, Deludes his broken slumbers by his toil, Thinks lordship sweet, where care with lordship dwells. The trustful man that builds on trothless vows, Whose simple thoughts are cross'd with scornful nays, Together weeps the loss of wealth and friend: So lordship, friends, wealth spring and perish fast, Where death alone yields happy life at last. O gentle governor of my contents, Thou sacred chieftain of our capitol, Who in thy crystal orbs with glorious gleams Lend'st looks of pity mix'd with majesty, See woful Marius careful for his son, Careless of lordship, wealth, or worldly means, Content to live, yet living still to die: Whose nerves and veins, whose sinews, by the sword Must lose their workings through distempering stroke, But yet whose mind, in spite of fate and all, Shall live by fame, although the body fall.

JAILER. Why mourneth Marius this recureless chance?

MARIUS. I pray thee, jailer, would'st thou gladly die?

JAILER. If needs, I would.

MARIUS. Yet were you loth to try?

JAILER. Why, noble lord, when goods, friends, fortune fail, What more than death might woful man avail?