Cas. Our first attempt doth prosper: they retiring
Scud to the bosom of their fir-tree vaults,
And under hatches hide themselves from death.
The Cornish band made havoc of their ranks,
Like Scythian wolves 'midst of a bleating fold:
The jingling lances, rattling chariot-wheels,
Madded their horse. The bowmen merrily shot.
Bel. Yet would our tributary kings had succour'd!
We are decay'd, they much in number grown,
And surely will make head again.
Cas. Fear not; thou know'st I can even with a whistle
Hide Kent with glitt'ring arms. More flaming sparkles
Paint not a freezing night; nor speckl'd bees
Buz not about sweet Hybla's bloomy head.
But what need millions, when some thousand serve?
O, did my brother live! we'd climb the Alps.
Like brave Mulmutius' sons: make Romulus' wolf
Howl horror in their streets, and Rome look pale,
As when the Punic captain[332] ey'd her walls. [March out.
Cæsar, Volusenus, &c.
Cæs. Are ye the men, who never fought in vain?
Who wear Bellona's favours in your scars?
Ay, ye are they. What then benumbs our spirits?
Our empire from Quirinus' narrow centre
Doth circling spread, and finds no brink nor bottom.
Titan no later sets nor earlier wakes,
Than he beholds our provinces. Why, then,
What privilege hath this place? have we or they
The Phrygian powers? have they Palladium got?
No, no; those gods our capitol keeps with joy;
These only have undaunted minds from Troy.
Enter Q. Atrius.
What news, good Atrius?
Atrius. No good news from Atrius.
When ominous earth with shade and cloudy vapours
Had darkness doubled, storms began to sound,
The dappl'd south, rough-footed Aquilo,
Came rushing like two rams, whose steeled horns
Dart fiery sparks: the clouds (crush'd) breathe out flames:
Thunder and lightning daunt all ears and eyes:
The winds and billows strive who loudest roar:
The sky distill'd in rain: his room to fill,
Ambitious waves would climb the starry hill.
Our ships are batter'd all, some forty sunk.
Cæs. What devil Cacus drags our fortune back![333]
Doth she move retrograde, and hoist us up,
That we may fall at height? why doth Camillus
Each night torment my sleep, and cry revenge?
I strive against the stream.