A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Vii Part 24

_A great skirmish in Rome and long, some slain. At last enter_ SYLLA _triumphant, with_ POMPEY, METELLUS, _Citizens, Soldiers_.

SYLLA. Now, Romans, after all these mutinies, Seditions, murders and conspiracies, Imagine with impartial hearts at last, What fruits proceed from these contentious brawls.

Your streets, where erst the fathers of your state In robes of purple walked up and down, Are strewed with mangled members, streaming blood: And why? the reasons of this ruthful wrack Are your seditious innovations, Your fickle minds inclin'd to foolish change.

Ungrateful men! whilst I with tedious pain In Asia seal'd my duty with my blood, Making the fierce Dardanians faint for fear, Spreading my colours in Galatia, Dipping my sword in the Enetans' blood, And foraging the fields of Phocida, You called my foe from exile with his friends; You did proclaim me traitor here in Rome; You raz'd my house, you did defame my friends.

But, brawling wolves, you cannot bite the moon, For Sylla lives, so forward to revenge, As woe to those that sought to do me wrong.

I now am entered Rome in spite of force, And will so hamper all my cursed foes.

As be he tribune, consul, lord, or knight, That hateth Sylla, let him look to die.

And first to make an entrance to mine ire, Bring me that traitor Carbo out of hand.

POMPEY. O Sylla, in revenging injuries, Inflict the pain where first offence did spring, And for my sake establish peace in Rome, And pardon these repentant citizens.

SYLLA. Pompey, I love thee, Pompey, and consent To thy request; but, Romans, have regard, Lest over-reaching in offence again, I load your shoulders with a double pain.

[_Exeunt citizens.

Bring in_ CARBO _bound_.

But, Pompey, see where jolly Carbo comes, Footing it featly like a mighty man.

What, no obeisance, sirrah, to your lord?

CARBO[151]. My lord? No, Sylla: he that thrice hath borne The name of consul scorns to stoop to him, Whose heart doth hammer nought but mutinies.

POMPEY. And doth your lords.h.i.+p then disdain to stoop?

CARBO. Ay, to mine equal, Pompey, as thou art.

SYLLA. Thine equal, villain? no, he is my friend; Thou, but a poor anatomy of bones, Cas'd in a knavish tawny withered skin.

Wilt thou not stoop? art thou so stately then?

CARBO. Sylla, I honour G.o.ds, not foolish men.

SYLLA. Then break that wither'd bough, that will not bend[152], And, soldiers, cast him down before my feet: [_They throw him down_.

Now, prating sir, my foot upon thy neck, I'll be so bold to give your lords.h.i.+p check.

Believe me, soldiers, but I over-reach; Old Carbo's neck at first was made to stretch.

CARBO. Though body bend, thou tyrant most unkind, Yet never shalt thou humble Carbo's mind.

SYLLA. O sir, I know, for all your warlike pith A man may mar your wors.h.i.+p with a with.[153]

You, sirrah, levied arms to do me wrong; You brought your legions to the gates of Rome; You fought it out in hope that I would faint; But, sirrah, now betake you to your books, Entreat the G.o.ds to save your sinful soul: For why this carcase must in my behalf Go feast the ravens that serve our augurs' turn.

Methinks I see already, how they wish To bait their beaks in such a jolly dish.

CARBO. Sylla, thy threats and scoffs amate me not.

I prythee, let thy murderers hale me hence; For Carbo rather likes to die by sword, Than live to be a mocking-stock to thee.

SYLLA. The man hath haste; good soldiers, take him hence: It would be good to alter his pretence.

But be advis'd that, when the fool is slain, You part the head and body both in twain.

I know that Carbo longs to know the cause, And shall: thy body for the ravens[154], thy head for daws.

CARBO. O matchless ruler of our capitol, Behold poor Rome with grave and piteous eye Fulfilled with wrong and wretched tyranny!

[_Exit_ CARBO _c.u.m militibus.

Enter_ SCIPIO, NORBa.n.u.s, _and_ CARINNA.[155]

SYLLA. Tut, the proud man's prayer will never pierce the sky.

But whither press these mincing senators?

NORBa.n.u.s. We press with prayers, we come with mournful tears, Entreating Sylla by those holy bands, That link fair Juno with her thundering Jove, Even by the bonds of hospitality, To pity Rome afflicted through thy wrath.

Thy soldiers (Sylla) murder innocents: O, whither will thy lawless fury stretch, If little ruth ensue thy country's harms?

SYLLA. Gay words, Norba.n.u.s, full of eloquence, Accompanied with action and conceit: But I must teach thee judgment therewithal Dar'st thou approach my presence, that hast borne Thine arms in spite of Sylla and his friends?

I tell thee, foolish man, thy judgment wanted In this presumptuous purpose that is pa.s.s'd: And, loitering scholar, since you fail in art, I'll learn you judgment shortly to your smart.

Despatch him, soldiers; I must see him die.

And you, Carinna, Carbo's ancient friend, Shall follow straight your headless[156] general.

And, Scipio, were it not I lov'd thee well, Thou should'st accompany these slaves to h.e.l.l: But get you gone, and if you love yourself.

[_Exit_ SCIPIO.

CARINNA. Pardon me, Sylla! pardon, gentle Sylla!

SYLLA. Sirrah, this gentle name was coin'd too late, And shadow'd in the shrouds of biting hate.

Despatch! [_Kill him_.] why so; good fortune to my friends-- As for my foes, even such shall be their ends.

Convey them hence. Metellus, gentle Metellus, Fetch me Sertorius from Iberia: In doing so thou standest me in stead, For sore I long to see the traitor's head.

METELLUS. I go, confirm'd to conquer him by sword, Or in th'exploit to hazard life and all. [_Exit_.

SYLLA. Now, Pompey, let me see: those senators Are dangerous stops of our pretended[157] state, And must be curtail'd, lest they grow too proud.

I do proscribe just forty senators, Which shall be leaders in my tragedy.

And for our gentlemen are over-proud, Of them a thousand and six hundred die; A goodly army, meet to conquer h.e.l.l.

Soldiers, perform the course of my decree.

Their friends my foes, their foes shall be my friends.

Go sell their goods by trumpet at your wills: Meanwhile Pompey shall see, and Rome shall rue, The miseries that shortly shall ensue.

[_Exeunt_.

_Alarum, skirmish, a retreat. Enter_ YOUNG MARIUS _upon the walls of_ PRAENESTE _with some Soldiers, all in black and wonderful melancholy_.

YOUNG MARIUS. O endless course of needy man's avail!

What silly thoughts, what simple policies, Make man presume upon this traitorous life!

Have I not seen the depth of sorrow once, And then again have kiss'd the queen of chance.

O Marius, thou, Tillitius, and thy friends, Hast seen thy foe discomfited in fight: But now the stars have form'd my final harms.

My father Marius lately dead in Rome; My foe with honour doth triumph in Rome, My friends are dead and banished from Rome.

Ay, Marius, father, friends, more blest than thee!

They dead, I live; I thralled, they are free.

Here in Praeneste am I cooped up, Amongst a troop of hunger-starved men, Set to prevent false Sylla's fierce approach, But now exempted both of life and all.

Well, fortune, since thy fleeting change hath cast Poor Marius from his hopes and true desires, My resolution shall exceed thy power.

Thy colour'd wings steeped in purple blood, Thy blinding wreath distain'd in purple blood, Thy royal robes wash'd in my purple blood, Shall witness to the world thy thirst of blood; And when the tyrant Sylla shall expect To see the son of Marius stoop to fear, Then, then, O, then, my mind shall well appear, That scorn my life, and hold mine honour dear.

[_Alarum. A retreat_.