GRANIUS. Why, Sylla, I am arm'd the worst to try.
SYLLA, I pray thee then, Lucretius, let him die.
[Exeunt with GRANIUS.
Beshrew me, lords, but in this jolly vein
'Twere pity but the prating fool were slain.
I fear me Pluto will be wrath with me,
For to detain so grave a man as he.
ANTHONY. But seek not, Sylla, in this quiet state
To work revenge upon an aged man,
A senator, a sovereign of this town.
SYLLA. The more the cedar climbs, the sooner down:
And, did I think the proudest man in Rome
Would wince at that which I have wrought or done,
I would and can control his insolence.
Why, senators, is this the true reward,
Wherewith you answer princes for their pain,
As when this sword hath made our city free,
A braving mate should thus distemper me?
But, Lepidus and fellow-senators,
I am resolved, and will not brook your taunts:
Who wrongeth Sylla, let him look for stripes.
ANTHONY. Ay, but the milder passions show the man;
For as the leaf doth beautify the tree,
The pleasant flow'rs bedeck the painted spring,
Even so in men of greatest reach and power
A mild and piteous thought augments renown.
Old Anthony did never see, my lord,
A swelling show'r, that did continue long:
A climbing tower that did not taste the wind:
A wrathful man not wasted with repent.
I speak of love, my Sylla, and of joy,
To see how fortune lends a pleasant gale
Unto the spreading sails of thy desires;
And, loving thee, must counsel thee withal:
For, as by cutting fruitful vines increase,
So faithful counsels work a prince's peace.
SYLLA. Thou honey-talking father, speak thy mind.
ANTHONY. My Sylla, scarce those tears are dried up,
That Roman matrons wept to see this war:
Along the holy streets the hideous groans
Of murdered men infect the weeping air:
Thy foes are fled, not overtaken yet,
And doubtful is the hazard of this war:
Yea, doubtful is the hazard of this war,
For now our legions draw their wasteful swords
To murder whom? Even Roman citizens!
To conquer whom? Even Roman citizens!
Then, if that Sylla love these citizens,
If care of Rome, if threat of foreign foes,
If fruitful counsels of thy forward friends,
May take effect, go fortunate, and drive
The King of Pontus out of Asia;
Lest, while we dream on civil mutinies,
Our wary foes assail our city walls.
POMPEY. My long-concealed thoughts, Mark Anthony,
Must seek discovery through thy pliant words.
Believe me, Sylla, civil mutinies
Must not obscure thy glories and our names.
Then, sith that factious Marius is suppress'd,
Go spread thy colours 'midst the Asian fields;
Meanwhile myself will watch this city's weal.