m thy moisten'd brains,
With clouds of dimness choke thy fretful eyes,
Before these monstrous harms assail my sire.

MARIUS. By'r lady,[140] Fulvia, you are gaily read:
Your mother well may boast you for her own;
For both of you have words and scoffs at will.
And since I like the compass of your wit,
Myself will stand, and, ladies, you shall sit.
And, if you please to wade in farther words,
Let's see what brawls your memories affords.

CORNELIA. Your lordship's passing mannerly in jest;
But that you may perceive we smell your drift,
We both will sit, and countenance your shift.

MARIUS. Where constancy and beauty do consort,
There ladies' threatenings turn to merry sport.
How fare these beautiful? what, well at ease?

FULVIA. As ready as at first for to displease;
For, full confirm'd that we shall surely die,
We wait our ends with Roman constancy.

MARIUS. Why, think you Marius hath confirm'd your death?

FULVIA. What other fruit may spring from tyrant's hands?

MARIUS. In faith then, ladies, thus the matter stands:
Since you mistake my love and courtesy,
Prepare yourselves, for you shall surely die.

CORNELIA. Ay, Marius, now I know thou dost not lie;
And that thou mayst, unto thy lasting blame,
Extinguish in our deaths thy wished fame,
Grant us this boon that, making choice of death,
We may be freed from fury of thine ire.

MARIUS. An easy boon; ladies, I condescend.

CORNELIA. Then suffer us in private chamber close
To meditate a day or two alone;
And, tyrant, if thou find us living then,
Commit us straight unto thy slaughtering-men.

MARIUS. Ladies, I grant; for Marius nill deny
A suit so easy and of such import;
For pity 'twere that dames of constancy
Should not be agents of their misery.
[_Here he whispers_ LECTORIUS.
Lectorius, hark, despatch.
[_Exit_ LECTORIUS.

CORNELIA. So, Fulvia, now the latest doom is fix'd,
And nought remains but constant Roman hearts
To bear the brunt of irksome fury's spite.
Rouse thee, my dear, and daunt those faint conceits,
That trembling stand aghast at bitter death.
Bethink thee now that Sylla was thy sire,
Whose courage heaven nor fortune could abate:
Then, like the offspring of fierce Sylla's house,
Pass with the thrice-renowned Phrygian dame,
As to thy marriage, so unto thy death:
For nought to wretches is more sweet than death.

FULVIA. Madam, confirm'd as well to die as live,
Fulvia awaiteth nothin