Act the Second
Scene I A Street in Rome
Enter Horatius Cocles and Mutius Scevola.
Horatius.
I would I were no Roman.
Scevola.
Cocles, why?
Horatius.
I am discontented, and dare not speak my thoughts.
Scevola.
What, shall I speak them for you?
Horatius.
Mutius, do.
Scevola.
Tarquin is proud.
Horatius.
Thou hast them.
Scevola.
Tyrannous.
Horatius.
True.
Scevola.
Insufferably lofty.
Horatius.
Thou hast hit me.
Scevola.
And shall I tell thee what I prophesy
Of his succeeding rule?
Horatius.
No, I’ll do’t for thee:
Tarquin’s ability will in the weal
Beget a weak unable impotence;
His strength make Rome and our dominions weak,
His soaring high make us to flag our wings,
And fly close by the earth; his golden feathers
Are of such vastness, that they spread like sails,
And so becalm us that we have not air
Able to raise our plumes, to taste the pleasures
Of our own elements.
Scevola.
We are one heart;
Our thoughts and our desires are suitable.
Horatius.
Since he was king he bears him like a god,
His wife like Pallas, or the wife of Jove;
Will not be spoke to without sacrifice,
And homage sole due to the deities.
Enter Lucretius.
Scevola.
What haste with good Lucretius?
Lucretius.
Haste, but small speed.
I had an earnest suit unto the king,
About some business that concerns the weal
Of Rome and us; ’twill not be listened to.
He has took upon him such ambitious state
That he abandons conference with his peers,
Or, if he chance to endure our tongues so much
As but to hear their sonance, he despises
The intent of all our speeches, our advices,
And counsel, thinking his own judgment only
To be approved in matters military,
And in affairs domestic; we are but mutes,
And fellows of no parts, viols unstrung,
Our notes too harsh to strike in princes’ ears.
Great Jove amend it!
Horatius.
Whither will you, my lord?
Lucretius.
No matter where,
If from the court. I’ll home to Collatine
And to my daughter Lucrece: home breeds safety,
Danger’s begot in court; a life retired
Must please me now perforce: then, noble Scevola,
And you my dear Horatius, farewell both.
Where industry is scorned let’s welcome sloth.
Enter Collatine.
Horatius.
Nay, good Lucretius, do not leave us thus.
See, here comes Collatine; but where’s Valerius?
How does he taste these times?
Collatine.
Not giddily like Brutus, passionately
Like old Lucretius with his tear-swollen eyes;
Not laughingly like Mutius Scevola,
Nor bluntly like Horatius Cocles here;
He has usurped a stranger garb of humour,
Distinct from these in nature every way.
Lucretius.
How is he relished? can his eyes forbear
In this strange state to shed a passionate tear?
Scevola.
Can he forbear to laugh with Scevola,
At that which passionate weeping cannot mend?
Horatius.
Nay, can his thought shape aught but melancholy
To see these dangerous passages of state?
How is he tempered, noble Collatine?
Collatine.
Strangely; he is all song, he’s ditty all,
Note that: Valerius hath given up the court,
And weaned himself from the king’s consistory,
In which his sweet harmonious tongue grew harsh.
Whether it be that he is discontent,
Yet would not so appear before the king,
Or whether in applause of these new edicts,
Which so distaste the people, or what cause
I know not, but now he’s all musical.
Unto the council chamber he goes singing,
And whilst the king his wilful edicts makes,
In which none’s tongue is powerful save the king’s,
He’s in a corner, relishing strange airs.
Conclusively, he’s from a toward hopeful gentleman,
Transhaped to a mere ballater,17 none knowing
Whence should proceed this transmutation.
Enter Valerius.
Horatius.
See where he comes. Morrow, Valerius.
Lucretius.
Morrow, my lord.
Valerius.
[Sings.] When Tarquin first in court began,
And was approvèd king,
Some men for sudden joy ’gan weep,
But I for sorrow sing.
Scevola.
Ha, ha! how long has my Valerius
Put on this strain of mirth, or what’s the cause?
Valerius.
[Sings.] Let humour change and spare not;
Since Tarquin’s proud, I care not;
His fair words so bewitchèd my delight,
That I doted on his sight:
Now he is changed, cruel thoughts embracing,
And my deserts disgracing.
Horatius.
Upon my life he’s either mad or love-sick.
Oh, can Valerius, but so late a statesman,
Of whom the public weal deserved so well,
Tune out his age in songs and canzonets,
Whose voice should thunder counsel in the ears
Of Tarquin and proud Tullia? Think, Valerius,
What that proud woman Tullia is; ’twill put thee
Quite out of tune.
Valerius.
[Sings.] Now what is love I will thee tell:
It is the fountain and the well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is perhaps the sansing18 bell,
That rings all in to heaven or hell;
And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell.
Now what is love I will you show:
A thing that creeps and cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for me, a thing for moe,19
And he that proves shall find it so;
And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend, I trow.
Lucretius.
Valerius, I shall quickly change thy cheer,
And make thy passionate eyes lament with mine.
Think how that worthy prince, our kinsman king,
Was butchered in the marble Capitol:
Shall Servius Tullius unregarded die
Alone of thee, whom all the Roman ladies,
Even yet with tear-swollen eyes, and sorrowful souls,
Compassionate, as well he merited?
To these lamenting dames what canst thou sing,
Whose grief through all the Roman temples ring?
Valerius.
[Sings.] Lament, ladies, lament!
Lament the Roman land!
The king is fra thee hent
Was doughty on his hand.
We’ll gang into the kirk,
His dead corpse we’ll embrace,
And when we see him dead,
We aye will cry alas!—Fa la!
Horatius.
This music mads me; I all mirth despise.
Lucretius.
To hear him sing draws rivers from mine eyes.
Scevola.
It pleaseth me; for since the court is harsh,
And looks askance on soldiers, let’s be merry,
Court ladies, sing, drink, dance, and every man
Get him a mistress, coach it in the country,
And taste the sweets of it. What thinks Valerius
Of Scevola’s last counsel?
Valerius.
[Sings.] Why, since we soldiers cannot prove,
And grief it is to us therefore,
Let every man get him a love,
To trim her well, and fight no more;
That we may taste of lovers’ bliss,
Be merry and blithe, embrace and kiss,
That ladies may say, Some more of this;
That ladies may say, Some more of this.
Since court and city both grow proud,
And safety you delight to hear,
We in the country will us shroud,
Where lives to please both eye and ear:
The nightingale sings jug, jug, jug,
The little lamb leaps after his dug,
And the pretty milk-maids they look so smug,
And the pretty milk-maids, &c.
Come, Scevola, shall we go and be idle?
Lucretius.
I’ll in to weep.
Horatius.
But I my gall to grate.
Scevola.
I’ll laugh at time, till it will change our fate.
[Exeunt all but Collatine.
Collatine.
Thou art not what thou seem’st, Lord Scevola;
Thy heart mourns in thee, though thy visage smile;
And so does thy soul weep, Valerius,
Although thy habit sing; for these new humours
Are but put on for safety, and to arm them
Against the pride of Tarquin, from whose danger,
None great in love, in counsel, or opinion,
Can be kept safe: this makes me lose20 my hours
At home with Lucrece, and abandon court.
Enter Clown.
Clown.
Fortune, I embrace thee, that thou hast assisted me in finding my master; the gods of good Rome keep my lord and master out of all bad company!
Collatine.
Sirrah, the news with you?
Clown.
Would you ha’ court news, camp news, city news, or country news, or would you know what’s the news at home?
Collatine.
Let me know all the news.
Clown.
The news at court is, that a small leg and a silk stocking is in the fashion for your lord, and the water that God Mercury makes21 is in request with your lady. The heaviness of the king’s wine makes many a light head, and the emptiness of his dishes many full bellies; eating and drinking was never more in use; you shall find the baddest legs in boots, and the worst faces in masks. They keep their old stomachs still: the king’s good cook hath the most wrong; for that which was wont to be private only to him is now usurped among all the other officers; for now every man in his place, to the prejudice of the master cook, makes bold to lick his own fingers.
Collatine.
The news in the camp?
Clown.
The greatest news in the camp is that there is no news at all; for being no camp at all, how can there be any tidings from it?
Collatine.
Then for the city?
Clown.
The senators are rich, their wives fair, credit grows cheap, and traffic dear, for you have many that are broke; the poorest man that is may take up what he will, so he will be but bound—to a post till he pay the debt. There was one courtier lay with twelve men’s wives in the suburbs, and pressing farther to make one more cuckold within the walls, and being taken with the manner,22 had nothing to say for himself but this—he that made twelve made thirteen.
Collatine.
Now, sir, for the country?
Clown.
There is no news there but at the ale-house; there’s the most receipt. And is it not strange, my lord, that so many men love ale that know not what ale is?
Collatine.
Why, what is ale?
Clown.
Why, ale is a kind of juice made of the precious grain called malt; and what is malt? Malt’s M A L T; and what is M A L T? M much, A ale, L little, T thrift; that is, much ale, little thrift.
Collatine.
Only the news at home, and I have done?
Clown.
My lady must needs speak with you about earnest business, that concerns her nearly, and I was sent in all haste to entreat your lordship to come away.
Collatine.
And couldst thou not have told me? Lucrece stay,
And I stand trifling here! Follow, away!
Clown.
Ay, marry, sir, the way into her were a way worth following, and that’s the reason that so many serving-men that are familiar with their mistresses have lost the name of servitors, and are now called their masters’ followers. Rest you merry!
[Music.