use
'Gainst all the false encounters of mishap.
You name me your dictator, but prefix
No time, no course, but give me leave to rule
And yet exempt me not from your revenge.
Thus by your pleasures being set aloft,
Straight by your furies I should quickly fall.
No, citizens, who readeth Sylla's mind,
Must form my titles in another kind:
Either let Sylla be dictator ever,
Or flatter Sylla with these titles never.

CITIZENS. Perpetual be thy glory and renown:
Perpetual lord dictator shalt thou be.

POMPEY. Hereto the senate frankly doth agree.

SYLLA. Then so shall Sylla reign, you senators.
Then so shall Sylla rule, you citizens,
As senators and citizens that please me
Shall be my friends; the rest cannot disease me.

_Enter_ LUCRETIUS, _with Soldiers_.

But see, whereas Lucretius is return'd!
Welcome, brave Roman: where is Marius?
Are these Praenestians put unto the sword?

LUCRETIUS. The city, noble Sylla, razed is,
And Marius dead--not by our swords, my lord,
But with more constancy than Cato died.

SYLLA. What, constancy! and but a very boy?
Why then I see he was his father's son.
But let us have this constancy described.

LUCRETIUS. After our fierce assaults and their resist,
Our siege, their sallying out to stop our trench,
Labour and hunger reigning in the town,
The younger Marius on the city's wall
Vouchsaf'd an inter-parley at the last;
Wherein with constancy and courage too
He boldly arm'd his friends, himself, to death;
And, spreading of his colours on the wall,
For answer said he could not brook to yield,
Or trust a tyrant such as Sylla was.

SYLLA. What, did the brainsick boy upbraid me so?
But let us hear the rest, Lucretius.

LUCRETIUS. And, after great persuasions to his friends
And worthy resolution of them all,
He first did sheathe his poniard in his breast,
And so in order died all the rest.

SYLLA. Now, by my sword, this was a worthy jest.[159]
Yet, silly boy, I needs must pity thee,
Whose noble mind could never mated be.
Believe me, countrymen, a sudden thought,
A sudden change in Sylla now hath wrought.
Old Marius and his son were men of name,
Nor fortune's laughs nor low'rs their minds could tame,
And when I count their fortunes that are past,
I see that death confirm'd their fames at last.
Then he that strives to manage mighty things,
Amidst his triumphs gains a troubled mind.
The greatest hope, the greatest harm it brings,
And poor men in content their glory find.