Enter Bonduca, Daughters, Hengo, Nennius, Soldiers.
Bon. The hardy Romans? O ye gods of Britain,
The rust of Arms, the blushing shame of soldiers;
Are these the men that conquer by inheritance!
The Fortune-makers? these the Julians.
Enter Caratach.
That with the Sun measure the end of Nature,
Making the World but one Rome and one Cæsar?
Shame, how they flee! Cæsars soft soul dwells in 'em;
Their Mothers got 'em sleeping, Pleasure nurst 'em,
Their Bodies sweat with sweet Oils, Loves allurements,
Not lustie Arms. Dare they send these to seek us,
These Roman Girls? Is Britain grown so wanton?
Twice we have beat 'em, Nennius scatter'd 'em,
And through their big-bon'd Germans, on whose Pikes
The honour of their actions sit in triumph,
Made Themes for Songs to shame 'em, and a Woman,
A Woman beat 'em, Nennius; a weak Woman,
A Woman beat these Romans.
Car. So it seems.
A man would shame to talk so.
Bon. Who's that?
Car. I.
Bon. Cosin, do you grieve at my fortunes?
Car. No, Bonduca,
If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes;
You put too much wind to your sail: Discretion
And hardy valour are the twins of honour,
And nurs'd together, make a Conqueror:
Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth.
That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed;
A truth we ought to crown the gods for, Lady,
And not our tongues. A truth is none of ours,
Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing:
For then it leaves to be a virtue, Lady;
And we that have been Victors, beat our selves,
When we insult upon our honors subject.
Bon. My valiant Cosin, is it foul to say
What liberty and honor bid us do,
And what the gods allow us?