MARIUS. These threats against thy country and these lords, Sylla, proceed from forth a traitor's heart; Whose head I trust to see advanced up On highest top of all this capitol, As erst was many of thy progeny, Before thou vaunt thy victories in Rome. SYLLA. Greybeard, if so thy heart and tongue agree, Draw forth thy legions and thy men at arms; Rear up thy standard and thy steeled crest, And meet with Sylla in the fields of Mars, And try whose fortune makes him general. MARIUS. I take thy word: Marius will meet thee there, And prove thee, Sylla, traitor unto Rome, And all that march under thy trait'rous wings. Therefore they that love the Senate and Marius, Now follow him. SYLLA. And all that love Sylla come down to him: For the rest, let them follow Marius, And the devil himself be their captain. [_Here let the Senate rise and cast away their gowns, having their swords by their sides. Exit_ MARIUS, _and with him_ SULPITIUS, JUNIUS, BRUTUS, LECTORIUS. Q. POMPEY. Sylla, I come to thee. LUCRETIUS. Sylla, Lucretius will die with thee. SYLLA. Thanks, my noble lords of Rome. [_Here let them go down, and_ SYLLA _offers to go forth, and_ ANTHONY _calls him back_: ANTHONY. Stay, Sylla; hear Anthony breathe forth The pleading plaints of sad declining Rome. SYLLA. Anthony, thou know'st thy honey words do pierce And move the mind of Sylla to remorse: Yet neither words nor pleadings now must serve: When as mine honour calls me forth to fight: Therefore, sweet Anthony, be short for Sylla's haste. ANTHONY. For Sylla's haste! O, whither wilt thou fly? Tell me, my Sylla, what dost thou take in hand? What wars are these thou stirrest up in Rome? What fire is this is kindled by thy wrath? A fire that must be quench'd by Romans' blood. A war that will confound our empery; And last, an act of foul impiety. Brute beasts nill break the mutual law of love, And birds affection will not violate: The senseless trees have concord 'mongst themselves, And stones agree in links of amity. If they, my Sylla, brook not to have jar, What then are men, that 'gainst themselves do war? Thou'lt say, my Sylla, honour stirs thee up; Is't honour to infringe the laws of Rome? Thou'lt say, perhaps, the titles thou hast won It were dishonour for thee to forego; O, is there any height above the highest, Or any better than the best of all? Art thou not consul? art thou not lord of Rome? What greater titles should our Sylla have? But thou wilt hence, thou'lt fight with Marius, The man the senate, ay, and Rome hath chose. Think this, before thou never lift'st aloft, And lettest fall thy warlike hand adown, But thou dost raze and wound thy city Rome: And look, how many slaughter'd souls lie slain Under thy ensigns and thy conquering lance, So many murders mak'st thou of thyself.