thy earth
Some laurel fix his seat, there grow and flourish,
And make thy grave an everlasting triumph!
Farewell all glorious wars, now thou art gone,
And honest arms adieu! All noble battles,
Maintain’d in thirst of honour, not of blood,
Farewell for ever!

Hengo. Was this Roman, uncle,
So good a man?

Car. Thou never knewest thy father.

Hengo. He died before I was born.

Car. This worthy Roman
Was such another piece of endless honour,
Such a brave soul dwelt in him; their proportions
And faces were not much unlike, boy.—Excellent nature!
See how it works into his eyes!—mine own boy!

Hengo. The multitudes of these men, and their fortunes,
Could never make me fear yet; one man’s goodness—

Car. Oh, now thou pleasest me; weep still, my child,
As if thou saw’st me dead! with such a flux
Or flood of sorrow, still thou pleasest me.—
And, worthy soldiers, pray receive these pledges,
These hatchments of our griefs, and grace us so much
To place ’em on his hearse. Now, if ye please,
Bear off the noble burden; raise his pile
High as Olympus, making Heaven to wonder
To see a star upon earth out-shining theirs:
And ever-loved, ever-living be
Thy honour’d and most sacred memory!

Drus. Thou hast done honestly, good Caratach;
And when thou diest, a thousand virtuous Romans
Shall sing thy soul to Heaven.—Now march on, soldiers.

[Exeunt Romans. A dead march.

Car. Now dry thine eyes, my boy.

Hengo. Are they all gone?
I could have wept this hour yet.

Car. Come, take cheer,
And raise thy spirit, child; if but this day
Thou canst bear out thy faintness, the night coming
I’ll fashion our escape.

Hengo. Pray fear not me;
Indeed I am very hearty.

Car. Be so still;
His mischiefs lessen, that controls his ill.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—The Roman Camp.

Enter Petillius.

Pet. What do I ail, i’ th’ name of Heaven? I did but see her,
And see her die; she stinks by this time strongly,
Abominably stinks. She was a woman,
A thing I never cared for; but to die so,
So confidently, bravely, strongly—Oh, the devil,
I have the bots!—By Heaven, she scorned us strangely,
All we could do, or durst do; threaten’d us
With such a noble anger, and so govern’d
With such a fiery spirit—The plain bots!
A pox upon the bots, the love-bots! Hang me.
Hang me even out o’ th’ way, directly hang me!
Oh, penny pipers, and most painful penners
Of bountiful new ballads, what a subject,
What a sweet subject for your silver sounds,
Is crept upon ye!