Dor. Great Generall,
Victorious, godlike Martius, your poor handmaid
Kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks
Thus humbly, that he may not. Listen Roman,
Thou whose advanced front doth speak thee Roman
To every Nation, and whose deeds assure 't;
Behold a Princess (whose declining head
Like to a drooping lilly after storms
Bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave,
To keep her husbands greatness unabated:
All which doth make thy Conquest greater: For,
If he be base in ought whom thou hast taken,
Then Martius hath but taken a base prize.
But if this Jewell hold lustre and value,
Martius is richer then in that he hath won.
O make him such a Captive, as thy self
Unto another wouldst, great Captain, be;
Till then, he is no prisoner fit for thee.
Mar. Valerius, here is harmonie would have brought
Old crabbed Saturn to sweet sleep, when Jove
Did first incense him with Rebellion:
Athens doth make women Philosophers,
And sure their children chat the talk of gods.
Val. Rise beauteous Dorigen.
Dor. Not untill I know
The Generals resolution.
Val. One soft word
From Sophocles would calm him into tears,
Like gentle showres after tempestuous winds.
Dor. To buy the world, he will not give a word,
A look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement,
And the divine composure of his minde:
All which I therefore doe, and here present
This Victors wreathe, this rich Athenian sword,
Trophies of Conqu[e]st, which, great Martius, wear,
And be appeas'd: Let Sophocles still live.
Mar. He would not live.
Dor. He would not beg to live.
When he shall so forget, then I begin
To command, Martius; and when he kneels,
Dorigen stands; when he lets fall a tear,
I dry mine eyes, and scorn him.
Mar. Scorn him now then,
Here in the face of Athens, and thy friends.
Self-will'd, stiff Sophocles, prepare to die,
And by that sword thy Lady honor'd me,
With which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends,
Who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me
Half Athens, and my half of Victorie.
Cap. By —— not we.