That with the sun measure the end of Nature,
Making the world but one Rome and one Cæsar?
Shame, how they flee! Cæsar's soft soul dwells in them;
Their mothers got them sleeping, pleasure nurst them,
Their bodies sweat with sweet oils, love's allurements,
Not lusty arms. Dare they send these to seek us,
These Roman girls? Is Britain grown so wanton ?
Twice we have beat them, Nennius, scattered them,
And through their big-boned Germans, on whose pikes
The honour of their actions sit in triumph,
Made themes for songs to shame them: and a woman,
A woman beat them, Nennius; a weak woman,
A woman beat these Romans.
Car. So it seems.
Bon. Who's that?
A man would shame to talk so.
Bon. Cousin, do you grieve at my fortunes?
Car. No, Bonduca,
If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes;
You put too much wind to your sail : discretion
And hardy valour are the twins of honour,
And nurs'd together, make a conqueror;
Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth,
That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed.
A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady,
And not our tongues. A truth, is none of ours,
Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing:
For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady,
And we that have been victors, beat ourselves,
When we insult upon our honour's subject.
Bon. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say
What liberty and honour bid us do,
And what the gods allow us?
So what we say exceed not what we do.
Ye call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans,
And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures:
Does this become a doer? are they such?
Bon. They are no more.
Car. Where is your conquest then?
Why are your altars crown'd with wreaths of flowers,
The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire?
The holy Druides composing songs
Of everlasting life to Victory?
Why are these triumphs, lady? for a may-game?
For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans?
Is it no more? shut up your temples, Britons,
And let the husbandman redeem his heifers;
Put out our holy fires; no timbrel ring;
Let's home and sleep; for such great overthrows
A candle burns too bright a sacrifice;
A glow-worm's tail too full of flame. O Nennius,
Thou hadst a noble uncle knew a Roman,
And how to speak to him, how to give him weight
In both his fortunes.
Bon. By the gods, I think
Ye doat upon these Romans, Caratach.
Car. Witness these wounds, I do; they were fairly
I love an enemy, I was born a soldier;
And he that in the head of's troop defies me,
Bending my manly body with his sword,
I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed Hymen
Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy,
Than I am married to that man that wounds me:
And are not all these Romans. Ten struck battles
I suck'd these honour'd scars from, and all Roman.
Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches,
When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass,
And made it doubtful whether that or I
Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought through,
And all to try these Romans. Ten times a night
I have swum the rivers, when the stars of Rome
Shot at me as I floated, and the billows
Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoulders,
Charging my batter'd sides with troops of agues,
And still to try these Romans; whom I found
(And if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward,
And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers)
As ready, and as full of that I brought
(Which was not fear nor flight) as valiant,
As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer,
Ever advanc'd as forward as the Britons;
Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours.
Aye, and as subtil, Lady. 'Tis dishonour,
And follow'd will be impudence, Bonduca,
And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans.
Have I not seen the Britons
Bon. What?
Car. Disheart'ned,
Run, run, Bonduca, not the quick rack swifter;
The virgin from the hated ravisher
Not half so fearful;-not a flight drawn home,
A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,
E'er made that haste that they have. By heavens,
I have seen these Britons that you magnify,
Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,
Basely for mercy, roaring; the light shadows,
That in a thought scur o'er the fields of corn,
Halted on crutches to them.
Bon. O ye powers,
What scandals do I suffer!
Car. Yes, Bonduca,
I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius;
Yea run apace, both; then when Penyus,
The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts,
And drove them headlong on ye down the hill:
Then when he hunted ye like Britain-foxes,
More by the scent than sight: then did I see
These valiant and approved men of Britain,
Like boading owls, creep into tods of ivy,
And hoot their fears to one another nightly.
Nen. And what did you then, Caratach?
Car. I fled too,
But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then,
Young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius:
For when your fears out-run him, then stept I,
And in the head of all the Roman's fury
Took him, and, with my tough belt to my back,
I buckled him; behind him, my sure shield;
And then I follow'd. If I say I fought
Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,
I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard
Me speak this, or ever seen the child more,
But that the son of Virtue, Penyus,
Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger,
My helm still in my hand (my sword) my prow
Turn'd to my foe (my face) he cried out nobly,
"Go Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely;
Thy manly sword has ransom'd thee: grow strong, "And let me meet thee once again in arms:
"Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine."
And here I am to honour him.
THE BLOODY BROTHER; OR, ROLLO: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER.
Rollo, Duke of Normandy, a bloody tyrant, puts to death his tutor Baldwin, for too freely reproving him for his crimes; but afterwards falls in love with Edith, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a show of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet; her design being to train him there, that she may kill him: but overcome by his flatteries, and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution.
Rol. What bright star, taking beauty's form upon her, In all the happy lustre of heaven's glory,
Has dropt down from the sky to comfort me?
Wonder of Nature, let it not prophane thee
My rude hand touch thy beauty, nor this kiss,
The gentle sacrifice of love and service,
Be offer'd to the honour of thy sweetness.
Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here,
Nor nothing of that virtue but obedience;
The servant to your will affects no flattery.
Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those
Are Love's eternal lamps he fires all hearts with :
That tongue the smart string to his bow? those sighs
The deadly shafts he sends into our souls?
Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty.
Edi. Your grace is full of game.
Rol. By heaven, my Edith,
Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee.
The sweetness of the Arabian wind still blowing
Upon the treasures of perfumes and spices,
In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress.
|