Scene 1.2

A

It is decree'd. Nor shall thy Fate, o Rome, Resist my vow. Though Hils were set on Hils, And Seas met Seas, to guarde thee; I would through: Aye, plough up rockes, steepe as the Alpes, in dust; And laue the Tyrrhene waters, into cloudes; But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud Citty: The ills, that I have done, cannot be safe But by attempting greater; and I feele A spirit, within me, chides my sluggish handes, And sayes, they have beene innocent too long.

Was I a Man, bred great, as Rome her selfe?

One, form'd for all her honors, all her glories?

Equall to all her titles? That could stand Close up, with Atlas; and sustaine her name As strong, as he doth Heau'n? And, was I, Of all her brood, mark'd out for the repulse By her no voice, when I stood Candidate, To be Commander in the Ponticke warre?

I will, hereafter, call her Stepdame, euer.

If she can loose her nature, I can loose My piety; and in her stony entrailes Digge me a seate: where, I will liue, againe, The labour of her wombe, and be a burden Weightier then all the Prodigies, and Monsters, That she hath teem'd with, since she first knew Mars.