Æcius. They grieve besides, Sir,
To see the Nations, whom our ancient Vertue
With many a weary march and hunger conquer'd,
With loss of many a daring life subdu'd,
Fall from their fair obedience, and even murmur
To see the warlike Eagles mew their honours
In obscure Towns, that wont to prey on Princes,
They cry for Enemies, and tell the Captains
The fruits of Italy are luscious, give us Egypt,
Or sandy Africk to display our valours,
There where our Swords may make us meat, and danger
Digest our well got Vyands; here our weapons
And bodies that were made for shining brass,
Are both unedg'd and old with ease and women.
And then they cry again, where are the Germans,
Lin'd with hot Spain, or Gallia, bring 'em on,
And let the Son of War, steel'd Mithridates,
Lead up his winged Parthians like a storm,
Hiding the face of Heaven with showrs of Arrows?
Yet we dare fight like Romans; then as Souldiers
Tir'd with a weary march, they tell their wounds
Even weeping ripe they were no more nor deeper,
And glory in those scars that make them lovely,
And sitting where a Camp was, like sad Pilgrims
They reckon up the times, and living labours
Of Julius or Germanicus, and wonder
That Rome, whose Turrets once were topt with Honours,
Can now forget the Custom of her Conquests;
And then they blame your Grace, and say Who leads us,
Shall we stand here like Statues? were our Fathers
The Sons of lazie Moors, our Princes Persians,
Nothing but silks and softness? Curses on 'em
That first taught Nero wantonness and blood,
Tiberius doubts, Caligula all vices;
For from the spring of these, succeeding Princes—
Thus they talk, Sir.
Emp. Well,
Why do you hear these things?
Æcius. Why do you do 'em?
I take the gods to witness, with more sorrow,
And more vexation do I hear these tainters
Than were my life dropt from me through an hour-glass.
Emp. Belike then you believe 'em, or at least
Are glad they should be so; take heed, you were better
Build your own Tomb, and run into it living,
Than dare a Princes anger.
Æcius. I am old, Sir,
And ten years more addition, is but nothing;
Now if my life be pleasing to ye, take it,
Upon my knees, if ever any service,
(As let me brag some have been worthy notice)
If ever any worth, or trust ye gave me
Deserv'd a fair respect, if all my actions,
The hazards of my youth, colds, burnings, wants,
For you, and for the Empire, be not vices;
By that stile ye have stampt upon me, Souldier,
Let me not fall into the hands of Wretches.
Emp. I understand you not.
Æcius. Let not this body
That has look'd bravely in his blood for Cæsar,
And covetous of wounds, and for your safety,
After the 'scape of Swords, Spears, Slings, and Arrows,
'Gainst which my beaten body was mine armour,
The Seas and thirsty Desarts now be purchase
For Slaves, and base Informers; I see anger,
And death look through your Eyes; I am markt for slaughter,
And know the telling of this truth has made me
A man clean lost to this World; I embrace it;
Only my last Petition, sacred Cæsar,
Is, I may dye a Roman.
Emp. Rise, my friend still,
And worthy of my love, reclaim the Souldier,
I'll study to do so upon my self too,
Go, keep your Command, and prosper.
Æcius. Life to Cæsar— [Exit Æcius.
Enter Chilax.