SYLLA. Arcathius, these are fortunes of the field.
Believe me, these brave captives draw by art,
And I will think upon their good desert.
But stay you, strangers, and respect my words.
Fond heartless men, what folly have I seen!
For fear of death can princes entertain
Such bastard thoughts, that now from glorious arms
Vouchsafe to draw like oxen in a plough?
Arcathius, I am sure Mithridates
Will hardly brook the scandal of his name:
'Twere better in Pisae[127] to have died,
Aristion, than amidst our legions thus to draw.
ARISTION. I tell thee, Sylla, captives have no choice,
And death is dreadful to a captive man.
SYLLA. In such imperfect mettles[128] as is yours:
But Romans, that are still allur'd by fame,
Choose rather death than blemish of their name.
But I have haste, and therefore will reward you.
Go, soldiers, with as quick despatch as may be,
Hasten their death, and bring them to their end,
And say in this that Sylla is your friend.
ARCATHIUS. O, ransom thou our lives, sweet conqueror!
SYLLA. Fie, foolish men, why fly you happiness?
Desire you still to lead a servile life?
Dare you not buy delights with little pains?
Well, for thy father's sake, Arcathius,
I will prefer thy triumphs with the rest.
Go, take them hence, and when we meet in hell,
Then tell me, princes, if I did not well.
[Exeunt milites.
Lucullus, thus these mighty foes are down,
Now strive thou for the King of Pontus' crown.
I will to Rome; go thou, and with thy train
Pursue Mithridates, till he be slain.
LUCULLUS. With fortune's help: go calm thy country's woes,
Whilst I with these seek out our mighty foes.
Enter MARIUS solus, from the Numidian mountains,
feeding on roots.
MARIUS. Thou, that hast walk'd with troops of flocking friends,
Now wand'rest 'midst the labyrinth of woes;
Thy best repast with many sighing ends,
And none but fortune all these mischiefs knows.
Like to these stretching mountains, clad with snow,
No sunshine of content my thoughts approacheth:
High spire their tops, my hopes no height do know,
But mount so high as time their tract reproacheth.
They find their spring, where winter wrongs my mind,
They weep their brooks, I waste my cheeks with tears.
O foolish fate, too froward and unkind,
Mountains have peace, where mournful be my years.
Yet high as they my thoughts some hopes would borrow;
But when I count the evening end with sorrow.
Death in Minturnum threaten'd Marius' head,
Hunger in these Numidian mountains dwells:
Thus with prevention having mischief fled,
Old Marius finds a world of many hells,
Such as poor simple wits have oft repin'd;
But I will quell, by virtues of the mind,
Long years misspent in many luckless chances,
Thoughts full of wrath, yet little worth succeeding,
These are the means for those whom fate advances:
But I, whose wounds are fresh, my heart still bleeding,
Live to entreat this blessed boon from fate,
That I might die with grief to live in state.
Six hundred suns with solitary walks
I still have sought for to delude my pain,
And friendly echo, answering to my talks,
Rebounds the accent of my ruth again:
She, courteous nymph, the woful Roman pleaseth,
Else no consorts but beasts my pains appeaseth.
Each day she answers in yon neighbouring mountain,
I do expect, reporting of my sorrow,
Whilst lifting up her locks from out the fountain,
She answereth to my questions even and morrow:
Whose sweet rebounds, my sorrow to remove,
To please my thoughts I mean for to approve.
Sweet nymph, draw near, thou kind and gentle echo,
[Echo[129]. I.
What help to ease my weary pains have I?
What comfort in distress to calm my griefs?
Griefs.
Sweet nymph, these griefs are grown, before I thought so.
I thought so.
Thus Marius lives disdain'd of all the gods.
Gods.
With deep despair late overtaken wholly.
O lie.
And will the heavens be never well appeased?
Appeased.
What mean have they left me to cure my smart?
Art.
Nought better fits old Marius' mind than war.
Then war[130].
Then full of hope, say, Echo, shall I go?
Go.
Is any better fortune then at hand?
At hand.
Then farewell, Echo, gentle nymph, farewell.
Farewell.
O pleasing folly to a pensive man!
Well, I will rest fast by this shady tree,
Waiting the end that fate allotteth me.
[Sits down.
Enter MARIUS the son, ALBINOVANUS, CETHEGUS,
LECTORIUS, with Soldiers.
YOUNG MARIUS. My countrymen, and favourites of Rome,
This melancholy desert where we meet,
Resembleth well young Marius' restless thoughts.
Here dreadful silence, solitary caves,
No chirping birds with solace singing sweetly,
Are harbour'd for delight; but from the oak,
Leafless and sapless through decaying age,
The screech-owl chants her fatal-boding lays.
Within my breast care, danger, sorrow dwell;
Hope and revenge sit hammering in my heart:
The baleful babes of angry Nemesis
Disperse their furious fires upon my soul.