Bond. A saint, Suetonius,

[Drinks.

When thou shalt fear, and die like a slave. Ye fools,
Ye should have tied up Death first, when ye conquer’d;
Ye sweat for us in vain else: See him here!
He is ours still, and our friend; laughs at your pities;
And we command him with as easy reins
As do our enemies.—I feel the poison.—
Poor vanquish’d Romans, with what matchless tortures
Could I now rack ye! But I pity ye,
Desiring to die quiet: Nay, so much
I hate to prosecute my victory,
That I will give ye counsel ere I die:
If you will keep your laws and empire whole,
Place in your Roman flesh a Briton soul.

[Dies.

Suet. Desperate and strange!

Enter Decius

Dec. ’Tis won, sir, and the Britons
All put to th’ sword.

Suet. Give her fair funeral;
She was truly noble, and a queen.

Pet. Pox take it,
A love mange grown upon me! What a spirit!

Jun. I am glad of this! I have found you.

Pet. In my belly,
Oh, how it tumbles!

Jun. Ye good gods, I thank ye!

[Exeunt.