since. You gods! I prate,
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i' the
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Than that of common sons.
O, stand up blest!
Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint,
I kneel before thee; and unproperly
duty, as mistaken all this while
Between the child and parent.
What is this?
Your knees to me? to your corrected son?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
the stars; then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun;
What cannot be, slight work.
Thou art my warrior;
I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle
That's curdied by the frost from
And hangs on Dian's temple: dear Valeria!
This is a poor epitome of yours,
Which by the interpretation of full time
May show like all yourself.
The god of soldiers,
With the consent of supreme Jove, inform
Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou
To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' the wars
Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,
saving those that eye thee!
Your knee, sirrah.
That's my brave boy!
Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,
Are suitors to you.
I beseech you, peace:
Or, if you'ld ask, remember this before:
The thing I have forsworn to grant may
Be held by you denials. Do not bid me
Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate
Again with Rome's mechanics: tell
Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not
To ally my rages and revenges with
Your colder reasons.
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