Ren. I thought I'd given my heart
Long since to every man that mingles here;
But grieve to find it trusted with such tempers
That can't forgive my froward age its weakness.
Bed. Eliot, thou once hadst virtue; I have seen
Thy stubborn temper bend with godlike goodness,
Not half thus courted: 'tis thy nation's glory,
To hug the foe that offers brave alliance.
Once more embrace, my friends—we'll all embrace!
United thus, we are the mighty engine
Must twist this rooted empire from its basis.
Totters it not already?
Eliot. Would 'twere tumbling!
Bed. Nay, it shall down: this night we seal its ruin.
Enter Pierre.
O Pierre! thou art welcome!
Come to my breast, for by its hopes thou look'st
Lovelily dreadful, and the fate of Venice
Seems on thy sword already. O, my Mars!
The poets that first feigned a god of war,
Sure prophesied of thee.
Pier. Friends! was not Brutus—
I mean that Brutus who in open Senate
Stabbed the first Cæsar that usurped the world—
A gallant man!
Ren. Yes, and Catiline too;
Though story wrong his fame; for he conspired
To prop the reeling glory of his country:
His cause was good.
Bed. And ours as much above it
As, Renault, thou'rt superior to Cethegus,
Or Pierre to Cassius.