Act 5

Scene 5.1

W

It is my fortune, and my glory, Souldiers, This day, to lead you on; the worthy Consul Kept from the honor of it, by disease: And I am proud, to have so braue a cause To exercise your armes in. We not, now, Fight for how long, how broad, how great, and large The extent, and bounds of the people of Rome shall be; But to retaine what our great Ancestors, With all their labours, counsels, arts, and actions, For us, were purchasing so many yeares.

The quarrell is not, now, of fame, of tribute, Or of wrongs, done vnto Confederates, For which, the Army of the people of Rome Was wont to moue: but for your owne Republique, For the rais'd Temples of the immortall Gods, For all your Fortunes, Altars, and your Fires, For the deere soules of your lou'd Wiues, and Children, Your Parents tombes, your Rites, Lawes, Liberty, And, briefly, for the safety of the World: Against such men, as onely by their crimes Are knowne; thrust out by riot, want, or rashnesse.

One sort, Sylla's old troopes, left here in Fesulæ, Who sodainly made rich, in those dire times, Are since, by their vnbounded, vast expence, Growne needie; and poore, and have but left to expect, From Catiline, new Billes, and new Proscriptions.

These men (they say) are valiant; yet, I think them Not worth your pause: For either their old vertue Is, in their sloth, and pleasures lost; or, if It tarry with them, so ill match to yours, As they are short in number, or in cause.

The second sort are of those (Citty-beasts,

Rather then Citizens) who whilst they reach After our fortunes, have let flie their owne; These, whelm'd in wine, swell'd up with meates, and weakned With hourely whoredomes, neuer left the side Of Catiline, in Rome; nor, here, are loos'd From his embraces: Such, as (trust me) neuer In riding, or in vsing well their armes, Watching, or other militarie labor, Did exercise their youth; but learn'd to loue, Drinke, dance, and sing, make feasts, and be fine gamsters.

And there will wish more hurt to you, then they bring you.

The rest are a mixt kinde, all sort of furies; Adulterers, Dicers, Fencers, Outlawes, Theeues, The Murderers of their Parents, all the sinke, And plague of Italie, met in one torrent, To take, to day, from us the punishment, Due to their mischiefs, for so many yeares.

And who, in such a cause, and 'gainst such fiends, Would not now wish himselfe all arme, and weapon?

To cut such poysons from the earth, and let Their blood out, to be drawne away in cloudes, And pour'd, on some inhabitable place, Where the hot Sunne, and Slime breedes nought but Monsters?

Chiefly, when this sure ioy shall crowne our side, That the least man, that falles upon our party This day (as some must give their happy names To fate, and that eternall memory Of the best death, writ with it, for their Countrey) Shall walke at pleasure, in the tents of rest; And see farre off, beneath him, all their host Tormented after life: and Catiline, there, Walking a wretched, and lesse Ghost, then he.

I will vrge no more: Moue forward, with your Eagles, And trust the Senates, and Romes cause to Heauen.

X

To thee; great Father Mars, and greater Ioue.