Scene 1.4

B

It is, mee thinkes, a Morning, full of Fate.

It riseth slowly, as her sollen carre Had all the weights of sleepe, and death hung at it.

She is not rosy-fingerd, but swolne blacke.

Her face is like a water, turnd to bloud, And her sicke head is bound about with clouds, As if she threatned night, ere noone of day.

It does not looke, as it would have a Hayle Or Health, wish'd in it, as on other Mornes.

C

Why, all the fitter, Lentulus: Our comming Is not for salutation, we have businesse.

A

Said nobly, braue Cethegus. Where is Autronius?

C

Is he not come?

A

Not here.

C

Not Vargunteius?

A

Neither.

C

A fire in their beds, and bosomes, That so will serue their sloth, rather then vertue.

They are no Romanes, and at such high neede As now.

B

Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, Fulnius, Gabinius, gaue me word, last night, By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, And early.

C

Yes. As you, had I not call'd you.

Come, we all sleepe, and are meere Dormice; Flies, A little lesse then dead: More dulnesse hangs On us, then on the Morne. We are spirit-bound, In ribs of ice; our whole blouds are one stone; And Honour cannot thaw us; nor our wants, Though they burne, hot as feuers, to our states.

A

I muse they would be tardy, at an houre Of so great purpose.

C

If the Gods had call'd

Them, to a purpose, they would iust have come With the same Tortoyse speed, that are thus slow To such an action, which the Gods will enuie.

As asking no lesse meanes, then all their powers Conioyn'd, to effect. I would have seene Rome burn't, By this time; and her ashes in an Vrne: The Kingdome of the Senate, rent asunder; And the degenerate, talking Gowne, runne frighted, Out of the ayre of Italy.

A

Spirit of men!

Thou, heart of our great enterprise! how much I Ioue these voyces in thee!

C

O the daies

Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword tooke leaue To act all that it would!

A

And was familiar

With entrailes, as our Augures!

C

Sonnes kild Fathers,

Brothers their Brothers.

A

And had price and praise.

All hate had licence giuen it; all rage raynes.

C

Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himselfe To seeme more huge; whilst to his stayned thighes The gore he drew flow'd up: and carried downe Whole heapes of limmes, and bodies, through his arch.

No Age was spar'd, no Sexe.

A

Nay, no Degree.

C

Not Infants, in the porch of life were free.

The Sicke, the Old, that could but hope a day Longer, by natures bounty, not let stay.

Virgins, and Widdowes, Matrons, pregnant Wiues, All dyed.

A

It was crime enough, that they had liues.

To strike but only those, that could do hurt, Was dull, and poore. Some fel to make the number As some the prey.

C

The rugged Charon fainted,

And ask'd a nauie, rather then a boate, To ferry ouer the sad world that came: The mawes, and dennes of beasts could not receiue The bodies, that those soules were frighted from; And e'en the graues were fild with men yet liuing, Whose flight, and feare had mix'd them, with the dead.

A

And this shall be againe, and more, and more, Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, Is to stand up in Rome.

B

Nay, vrge not that

Is so vncertaine.

A

How!

B

I meane, not clear'd.

And, therefore, not to be reflected on.

A

The Sybill's leaues vncertaine? or the Comments Of our graue, deepe, diuining men not cleare?

B

All Prophecies, you know, suffer the torture.

A

But this, already, hath confess'd without.

And so beene weigh'd, examin'd, and compar'd, As it were malicious ignorance in him, Would faint in the beliefe.

B

Do you beleeue it?

A

Do I loue Lentulus? or pray to see it?

B

The Augures all are constant, I am meant.

A

They had lost their science else.

B

They count from Cinna.

A

And Sylla next, and so make you the third; All that can say the Sunne is ris'n, must think it.

B

Men marke me more, of late, as I come forth.

A

Why, what can they do lesse? Cinna, and Sylla Are set, and gone: And we must turne our eyes On him that is, and shines. Noble Cethegus, But view him with me, here: He lookes, already, As if he shooke a Scepter, o're the Senate, And the aw'd purple dropt their roddes, and axes.

The Statues melt againe; and houshold Gods

In grones confesse the trauaile of the City; The very walles sweate blood before the change; And stones start out to ruine, ere it comes.

C

But he, and we, and all are idle still.

B

I am your creature, Sergius: And what ere The great Cornelian Name shall winne to be, It is not Augury, nor the Sybils Bookes, But Catiline that makes it.

A

I am shadow

To honor'd Lentulus, and Cethegus here, Who are the heires of Mars.

C

By Mars himselfe,

Catiline is more my parent: For whose vertue Earth cannot make a shadow great inough, Though Enuie should come too. O, there they are.

Now we shall talke more, though we yet do nothing.