De F. I cannot untie riddled knots, Cleara.
Cle. Come, I'll but dry mine eyes, and tell you a story,
That shall deserve a groan. [Exeunt.
[ACTUS TERTIUS. SCENA PRIMA.]
Enter De Castro and Dessandro.
Des. Tush! they had only tongue
And malice; and that great zeal they
Seem'd to owe to Rome was unto themselves
And their own estates. What were they but wranglers
In schools and law? and studied words to make men
Guilty. They liv'd at ease; and slept in purples and
Warm furs; but bold-minded Catiline threat'ned
Their wise sleeps.
De C. There was too much attempt and fact in't.
Des. 'Twas fact then to look sour on a gownman:
They were mere citizens, jealous of their wives
And daughters—that condemn'd 'em too!
De Castro, there's a lethargy in our blood:
We sleep and dream away our lives. If such
Wore purple for well-talking, what shall he merit,
That cures the wounds and smart his country groans with?
De C. The people shall enshrine his name with reverence;
And fill their temples with his statues. 'Tis
The great end we are all born to.
Des. Which can't be, whilst by-respect shall closely
Wound the bosom of our laws and freedom:
For what was't less, that took our father's life?