Scene 3.4

L

Is there a Heauen? and Gods? and can it be They should so slowly heare, so slowly see?

Hath Ioue no thunder? or is Ioue become Stupide as thou art? o neare-wretched Rome, When both thy Senate, and thy Gods do sleepe, And neither thine, nor their owne States do keepe!

What will awake thee, Heauen? what can excite Thine anger, if this practise be too light?

His former drifts partake of former times, But this last plot was only Catilines.

O, that it were his last. But he, before Hath safely done so much, he will still dare more.

Ambition, like a torrent, nere lookes backe; And is a swelling, and the last affection A high minde can put off: being both a Rebell Vnto the soule, and reason, and enforceth All lawes, all conscience, treades upon religion, And offereth violence to Natures selfe.

But here, is that transcends it. A blacke purpose To confound Nature: and to ruine that, Which neuer Age, nor Mankinde can repaire.

Sit downe, good Lady; Cicero is lost In this your fable: for, to think it true Tempteth my reason. It so farre exceedes All insolent fictions of the tragicke Scene.

The Commonwealth, yet panting, vnderneath The stripes, and wounds of a late ciuill warre, Gasping for life, and scarce restor'd to hope; To seeke to oppresse her, with new cruelty, And vtterly extinguish her long name, With so prodigious, and vnheard-of fiercenesse!

What sinke of Monsters, wretches of lost minds,

Mad after change, and desp'rate in their states, Wearied, and gall'd with their necessities, ( For all this I allow them) durst have thought it?

Would not the barbarous deeds have beene beleeu'd, Of Marius, and Sylla, by our Children, Without, this fact had rise forth greater, for them?

All, that they did, was piety, to this.

They, yet, but murdred Kinsfolke, Brothers, Parents, Rauish'd the Virgins, and, perhaps, some Matrons; They left the Citty standing, and the Temples: The Gods, and Maiesty of Rome were safe yet.

These purpose to fire it, to dispoile them, (Beyond the other euils,) and lay wast The farre-triumphed world: For, vnto whom Rome is too little, what can be inough?

I

It is true, my Lord, I had the same discourse.

L

And, then, to take a horride Sacrament In humane blood, for execution

Of this their dire designe; which might be call'd The height of wickednesse: but that, that was higher, For which they did it.

I

I assure your Lordship,

The extreme horror of it almost turn'd me To aire, when first I heard it; I was all A vapor, when it was told me; and I long'd To vent it any where; It was such a secret, I thought, it would have burnt me up.

L

Good Fuluia,

Feare not your act; and lesse repent you of it.

I

I do not, my good Lord. I know to whom I have vtter'd it.

L

You have discharg'd it, safely.

Should Rome, for whom you have done the happy seruice, Turne most ingrate; yet were your vertue paid In conscience of the fact: so much good deedes Reward themselues.

I

My Lord, I did it not

To any other ayme, but for it selfe.

To no ambition.

L

You have learn'd the difference

Of doing office to the publike weale, And priuate friendship, and have shewne it, Lady.

Be still your selfe. I have sent for Quintus Curius, And (for your vertuous sake) if I can winne him, Yet, to the common wealth; He shall be safe too.

I

I will vndertake, my Lord, he will be wonne.

L

Pray, you ioyne with me, then: And helpe to worke him.