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 cursed thoughts: For were my tongue betray'd with pleasing words To feed the humours of thy haughty mind, I rather wish the rot should root it out. SYLLA. The bravest brawler that I ever heard. But, soldiers, since I see he is oppress'd With crooked choler, and our artists teach That fretting blood will press through open'd veins, Let him that has the keenest sword arrest The greybeard, and cut off his head in jest. Soldiers, lay hands on Granius. GRANIUS. Is this the guerdon[114] then of good advice? SYLLA. No, but the means to make fond men more wise. Tut, I have wit, and carry warlike tools, To charm the scolding prate of wanton fools. Tell me of fencers and a tale of fate! No, Sylla thinks of nothing but a state. GRANIUS. Why, Sylla, I am arm'd the worst to try. SYLLA, I pray thee then, Lucretius, let him die. [_Exeunt with_ GRANIUS. Beshrew me, lords, but in this jolly vein 'Twere pity but the prating fool were slain. I fear me Pluto will be wrath with me, For to detain so grave a man as he. ANTHONY. But seek not, Sylla, in this quiet state To work revenge upon an aged man, A senator, a sovereign of this town. SYLLA. The more the cedar climbs, the sooner down: And, did I think the proudest man in Rome Would wince at that which I have wrought or done, I would and can control his insolence. Why, senators, is this the true reward, Wherewith you answer princes for their pain, As when this sword hath made our city free, A braving mate should thus distemper me? But, Lepidus and fellow-senators, I am resolved, and will not brook your taunts: Who wrongeth Sylla, let him look for stripes. ANTHONY. Ay, but the milder passions show the man; For as the leaf doth beautify the tree, The pleasant flow'rs bedeck the painted spring, Even so in men of greatest reach and power A mild and piteous thought augments renown. Old Anthony did never see, my lord, A swelling show'r, that did continue long: A climbing tower that did not taste the wind: A wrathful man not wasted with repent. I speak of love, my Sylla, and of joy, To see how fortune lends a pleasant gale Unto the spreading sails of thy desires; And, loving thee, must counsel thee withal: For, as by cutting fruitful vines increase, So faithful counsels work a prince's peace. SYLLA. Thou honey-talking father, speak thy mind.