[_Exit Soldiers_.

LUCRETIUS. Lo, Sylla, where our senators approach;
Perhaps to 'gratulate thy good success.

_Enter_ ANTHONY, GRANIUS, LEPIDUS.

SYLLA. Ay, that _perhaps_ was fitly placed there:
But, my Lucretius, these are cunning lords,
Whose tongues are tipp'd with honey to deceive.
As for their hearts, if outward eyes may see them,
The devil scarce with mischief might agree them.

LEPIDUS. Good fortune to our consul, worthy Sylla.

SYLLA. And why not general 'gainst the King of Pontus?

GRANIUS. And general against the King of
Pontus.

SYLLA. Sirrah, your words are good, your thoughts are ill.
Each milkwhite hair amid this mincing beard,
Compar'd with millions of thy treacherous thoughts,
Would change their hue through vigour of thy hate.
But, did not pity make my fury thrall,
This sword should finish hate, thy life, and all.
I prythee, Granius, how doth Marius?

GRANIUS. As he that bides a thrall to thee and fate:
Living in hope, as I and others do,
To catch good fortune, and to cross thee too.

SYLLA. Both blunt and bold, but too much mother-wit.
To play with fire, where fury streams about:
Curtail your tale, fond man, cut off the rest;
But here I will dissemble for the best.

GRANIUS. Sylla, my years have taught me to discern
Betwixt ambitious pride and princely zeal;
And from thy youth these peers of Home have mark'd
A rash revenging humour[113] in thy brain.
Thy tongue adorn'd with flowing eloquence,
And yet I see imprinted in thy brows
A fortunate but froward governance.
And though thy rival Marius, mated late
By backward working of his wretched fate,
Is fall'n; yet, Sylla, mark what I have seen
Even here in Rome. The fencer Spectacus
Hath been as fortunate as thou thyself;
But when that Crassus' sword assayed his crest,
The fear of death did make him droop for woe.

SYLLA. You saw in Rome this brawling fencer die,
When Spectacus by Crassus was subdued.
Why so? but, sir, I hope you will apply,
And say like Spectacus that I shall die.
Thus peevish eld, discoursing by a fire,
Amidst their cups will prate how men aspire.
Is this the greeting, Romans, that you give
Unto the patron of your monarchy?
Lucretius, shall I play a pretty jest?

LUCRETIUS. What Sylla will, what Roman dare withstand?

SYLLA. A brief and pleasing answer, by my head.
Why, tell me, Granius, dost thou talk in sport?

GRANIUS. No, Sylla, my discourse is resolute.
Not coin'd to please thy fond and cur