_Enter the Magistrates of Minturnum with_ MARIUS _very melancholy_: LUCIUS FAVORINUS, PAUSANIUS, _with some attendants_. PAUSANIUS. My lord, the course of your unstayed fate, Made weak through that your late unhappy fight, Withdraws our wills that fain would work your weal: For long experience and the change of times, The innocent suppressions of the just, In leaning to forsaken men's relief, Doth make us fear, lest our unhappy town Should perish through the angry Roman's sword. MARIUS. Lords of Minturnum, when I shap'd my course, To fly the danger of pursuing death, I left my friends, and all alone attain'd, In hope of succours, to this little town, Relying on your courtesies and truth. What foolish fear doth then amaze you thus? FAVORINUS. O Marius, thou thyself, thy son, thy friends, Are banished, and exiles out of Rome, Proclaim'd for traitors, reft of your estates, Adjudg'd to death with certain warrantise: Should then so small a town, my lord, as this Hazard their fortunes to supply your wants? MARIUS. Why, citizens, and what is Marius? I tell you, not so base as to despair, Yea, able to withstand ingratitudes. Tell me of foolish laws, decreed at Rome To please the angry humours of my foe! Believe me, lords, I know and am assur'd, That magnanimity can never fear, And fortitude so conquer silly fate, As Sylla, when he hopes to have my head, May hap ere long on sudden lose his own. PAUSANIUS. A hope beseeming Marius; but, I fear, Too strange to have a short and good event. MARIUS. Why, Sir Pausanius, have you not beheld Campania plains fulfill'd with greater foes, Than is that wanton milk-sop, nature's scorn. Base-minded men to live in perfect hope, Whose thoughts are shut within your cottage eaves, Refuse not Marius, that must favour you: For these are parts of unadvised men, With present fear to lose a perfect friend, That can, will, may control, command, subdue, That braving boy, that thus bewitcheth you. FAVORINUS. How gladly would we succour you, my lord, But that we fear-- MARIUS. What? the moonshine in the water! Thou wretched stepdame of my fickle state, Are these the guerdons of the greatest minds? To make them hope and yet betray their hap, To make them climb to overthrow them straight? Accurs'd thy wreak[116], thy wrath, thy bale, thy weal, That mak'st me sigh the sorrows that I feel! Untrodden paths my feet shall rather trace, Than wrest my succours from inconstant hands: Rebounding rocks shall rather ring my ruth, Than these Campanian piles, where terrors bide: And nature, that hath lift my throne so high, Shall witness Marius' triumphs, if he die. But she, that gave the lictor's rod and axe To wait my six times consulship in Rome, Will not pursue where erst she flattered so. Minturnum then, farewell, for I must go; But think for to repent you of your no.