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Ye yeeld them tribute, and from us their Legions have their
pay ; Thus were too much, but more then thus, the haughtie
Tirant's fway; That' I am Queene from being wrong'd doth nothing me
protect : Their rapes against my Daughters both I also might object : They may des deflower, they wives enforce, and use their wils
And yeat we live; defferring fight, inferring so our fall.
But valiant Brutons, ventrous Scots, and warlike Pichts, I
erre, Exhorting whom I should dehort, your fiearcenes to deferre: Leffe courage more considerate would make your fues to
quake: My heart hath joy'd to see your hands the Romaine standards
take. But when as force and fortune fail'd, that you with teeth
fhould fight, Ånd in the faces of tlieir Foes your women, in despight, Should fling tiieir suckling Babes, I hild such valiantnes but
vaine : Inforced flight is no disgrace, fuch flyers fight againe. Here are ye, Scots, that with the King, my valiant Brother
dead, The Latines, wondring at your prowes, through Rome in
triumph led : Ye Mars-star'd Pichtes of Scythian breed are here colleagues,
Ye Dardane Brutes, last named, but in valour meant before : In your conduct, most knightly Friends, I fuperfeade the
Ye come to fight, and we in fight to hope and helpe our best."
Warner's Alb. Eng. Chap. 18. B. 3. 1602.
MUTIUS SCAVOLA to PORSENNA.
“ BEHOLD, grim Tyrant, here before thee fland's
A man had been thy death, had not these hands
Prov'd traitours to my mind : had made that grave
Been thine, which now's prepared for thy flave.
if Scævola muit undergo death's doom,
There's none but will write guiltleffe: on his tomb:
I set upon with fearleffe courage those
Who were our Capitols, our Countrie's foes.
Why are the Heavens then thus againit me bent ;
And not propitious to my brave intent :
What, are, the Gods allai'd to lend their aid;
Or are they of this Tyrant's pow'r afraid?
Or have the Fates reserved him that he
In future triumphis might a trophie be?
Whate'er 'twas made them thus 'gainst me conspire,
It grieves my soul it had not its desire.
Etruria, see what souls the Romans bear,
Admire the noble acts the Latians dare ;
Long after me that will this fact yet do,
There comes an other and an other too ;
There want not those who hope to fay they wore
A lawrel died in thy crimson gore :
What though thy camp lies free from our alarms,
And spoils our fields with unrevenged harms ;
We scorn with bafer blood to stain a dart,
O King, that's onely level'd at thy heart :
Our nobler swords will drink the blood of none,
But thy heart-blood, Porsenna, thine alone ;
Those who their hands will strait in it imbrue,
Walk intermixed with thy armed crew.
Methinks I see at present one thee note,
Who strait wil hide his weapon in thy throat ; · Hence, therefore, think each hower of thy breath, To be th' assured hower of thy death ;
Thou doft with warlike troups our wals furround,
Hoping to lay them level with the ground,
And thinkst to famish us, whilst o'er thy head,
Hangs a revengeful arm will strike thee dead;
That glorious diadem which now I see
Circles thy brow, was hop'd a spoil by inee;
That purple robe invests thy loins Mal lie,
Thy blood be tinged in a deeper dy :
That very scepter which thy hand sustains,
Shal, turn'd a club, dash out thy curfed brains ;
Now rule, now lord ard king it, with this fate,
Expecting still the period of thy date.
Methinks I see how on thy curled brow,
Self-rendring Vengeance fits enthron'd, and how
Thy thoughts already tear me; yet I feel
No horror, nor my frighted body reel,
No trembling in my joynts; know, king, I can
Both do and suffer bove the reach of man:
In free born souls pale terror never stood
In competion with their Countries good;
Those fouls in whom aspiring fame her sphear
Hath plac't, neglect the precipice of fear;
This sacred altar, these pure fires shall be
Witnesses of our undaunted constancy ;
This haud to Roman freedom fo unjuft,
Shall for its penance be confum'd to duft ;
Nor is it cruel, but inost right its doom,
Since liberty it could not yield to Rome.”.
John Dancer's Poemi,
A Reconciliation effected between the two bro
thers, Brenn and Beline, at the intercession of their Mother CONUVENNA.
Dare to name ye Sonnes, because I am your Mother, yet
I doubt to tearme you Brothers that doe brotherhood
forget. These prodigies, their wrothfull fhields, forbodden foe to
Doe ill befeeme allyed hands, even yours allyed loe.
O, how seeme Oedipus his Sonnes in you againe to strive?
How seeme these swords in me (aye me) Jocasta to revive ?
I would Dunwallo lived, or ere death, had lost againe
His Monarchie, sufficing fower, but now too small for twaine.
Then either would you, as did he, imploy your wounds elf-
Or for the finalnes of your power, agree at least for feare.
But pride of ritch and romesome Thrones, that wingeth now
It will (I would not as I feare) worke sorrow to your harts.
My Sonnes, sweet Sonnes, attend my words, your Mother's
And for I am your Mother, doe conclude I am your
I cannot counsell, but intreate, nor yet I can intreate
But as a woman, and the same whose blood was once your
meate: Hence had ye milke (she baerd her paps) these armes did
hug ye oft: These fy.ed hands did wipe, did wrap, did rocke, and lay ye
foft: These lips did kiffe, or eyes did weep, if that ye were un
queat, Then ply 1 did, with song, or fighes, with dance, with tung,
or teate : For theie kind causes, deere my Sonnes, disarme yourselves :
Then for these bitter teares that now your Mother's cheekes
do spot :
I Sonnes and Mothers names,
names not to be
Send hence these Souldiers: yee, my Sons, and none but yee
should tight: When none fiould rather be as one, if Nature had her
right. What comfort, Beline, shall I speede ? sweete Brenn fhall I
prevaile? Say yea, sweete Youthes, ah yea, say yea: or if I needes must
Say noe: and then will I begin your battell with my baile,
I hen then some stranger, not my Sonnes, shall close me in the
When we by armor over soone shall meet, I feare, in death."