POMPEY. Ay, Sylla, these are words of mickle worth, Fit for the master of so great a mind. Now Rome must stoop, for Marius and his friends Have left their arms, and trust unto their heels. SYLLA. But, Pompey, if our Spanish jennets' feet Have learnt to post it of their mother-wind, I hope to trip upon the greybeard's heels, Till I have cropp'd his shoulders from his head. And for his son, the proud, aspiring boy, His beardless face and wanton, smiling brows, Shall, if I catch him, deck yond' capitol. The father, son, the friends and soldiers all, That fawn on Marius, shall with fury fall. LUCRETIUS. And what event shall all these troubles bring? SYLLA. This--Sylla in fortune will exceed a king. But, friends and soldiers, with dispersed bands Go seek out Marius' fond confederates: Some post along those unfrequented paths, That track by nooks unto the neighbouring sea: Murder me Marius, and maintain my life. And that his favourites in Rome may learn The difference betwixt my fawn and frown, Go cut them short, and shed their hateful blood, To quench these furies of my froward mood. [_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 Rome 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.