Catiline, His Conspiracy
Scene 3.2
A
Hayle noblest Romanes. The most worthy Consul, I gratulate your Honor.
M
I could wish
It had beene happier, by your fellowship, Most noble Sergius, had it pleas'd the people.
A
It did not please the Gods; who instruct the people.
And their vnquestion'd pleasures must be seru'd.
They know what is fitter for us, then our selues; And it were impiety, to think against them.
O
You beare it rightly, Lucius; and, it glads me, To find your thoughts so euen.
A
I shall still
Studie to make them such to Rome, and Heauen.
I would withdraw with you, a little, Iulius.
Q
I will come home to you: Crassus would not have you To speake to him, 'fore Quintus Catulus.
A
I apprehend you. No, when they shall iudge Honors conuenient for me, I shall have them, With a full hand: I know it. In meane time, They are no lesse part of the Common-wealth, That do obey, then those, that do command.
O
O, let me kisse your forehead, Lucius.
How are you wrongd!
A
By whom?
O
Publicke report.
That giues you out, to stomacke your repulse; And brooke it deadly.
A
Sir: she brookes not me.
Belieue me rather, and your selfe, now, of me; It is a kinde of slander, to trust rumour.
O
I know it. And I could be angrie with it.
A
So may not I. Where it concernes himselfe, Who is angry at a slander, makes it true.
O
Most noble Sergius! This your temper melts me.
P
Will you do office to the Consul, Quintus?
Q
That Cato, and the Rout have done the other?
O
I waite, when he will goe. Be still your selfe.
He wants no state, or honors, that hath vertue, A
Did I appeare so tame, as this man thinks me?
Look'd I so poore, so dead? So like that nothing, Which he calls vertuous? O my breast, breake quickly; And shew my friends my in-parts, least they think I have betraid them.
E
Where is Gabinius?
B
Gone.
E
And Vargunteius?
B
Slipt away; all shrunke:
Now he mist the Consul-ship.
A
I am
The scorne of bond-men; who are next to beasts.
What can I worse pronounce my selfe, that is fitter?
The Owle of Rome, whom Boyes, and Girles will hout; That were I set up, for that woodden God, That keepes our gardens, could not fright the crowes, Or the least Bird from muting on my head, E
It is strange how he should misse it.
B
Is it not stranger,
The upstart Cicero should carry it so, By all consents, from men so much his Masters?
E
It is true.
A
To what a shadow, am I melted!
E
Antonius wan it but by some few voyces.
A
Strooke through, like ayre, and feele it not. My wounds Close faster, then they are made.
F
The whole designe,
And enterprise is lost by it. All handes quit it, Upon his fayle.
A
I grow mad at my patience.
It is a Visor that hath poyson'd me.
Would it had burnt me up, and I died inward: My heart first turn'd to ashes.
E
Here is Cethegus yet.