[_Exit_ OCTAVIUS; _with him_ ANTHONY _and_ LEPIDUS. CINNA. High Jove himself hath done too much for thee, Else should this blade abate thy royalty. Well, young Italian citizens, take heart, He is at hand that will maintain your right; That, entering in these fatal gates of Rome, Shall make them tremble that disturb you now. You of Preneste and of Formiae, With other neighbouring cities in Campania, Prepare to entertain and succour Marius. YOUNG CITIZEN. For him we live, for him we mean to die. [_Exeunt_. _Enter_ OLD MARIUS _with his_ KEEPER _and two_ SOLDIERS. MARIUS. Have these Minturnians, then, so cruelly Presum'd so great injustice 'gainst their friends? JAILER. Ay, Marius, all our nobles have decreed To send thy head a present unto Rome. MARIUS. A Tantal's present it will prove, my friend, Which with a little smarting stress will end Old Marius' life, when Rome itself at last Shall rue my loss, and then revenge my death. But tell me, jailer, could'st thou be content, In being Marius, for to brook this wrong. JAILER. The high estate your lordship once did wield, The many friends that fawn'd, when fortune smil'd, Your great promotions and your mighty wealth, These, were I Marius, would amate me so,[120] As loss of them would vex me more than death. MARIUS. Is lordship then so great a bliss, my friend? JAILER. No title may compare with princely rule. MARIUS. Are friends so faithful pledges of delight? JAILER. What better comforts than are faithful friends? MARIUS. Is wealth a mean to lengthen life's content? JAILER. Where great possessions bide, what care can touch? MARIUS. These stales[121] of fortune are the common plagues, That still mislead the thoughts of simple men. The shepherd-swain that, 'midst his country-cot, Deludes his broken slumbers by his toil, Thinks lordship sweet, where care with lordship dwells. The trustful man that builds on trothless vows, Whose simple thoughts are cross'd with scornful nays, Together weeps the loss of wealth and friend: So lordship, friends, wealth spring and perish fast, Where death alone yields happy life at last. O gentle governor of my contents, Thou sacred chieftain of our capitol, Who in thy crystal orbs with glorious gleams Lend'st looks of pity mix'd with majesty, See woful Marius careful for his son, Careless of lordship, wealth, or worldly means, Content to live, yet living still to die: Whose nerves and veins, whose sinews, by the sword Must lose their workings through distempering stroke, But yet whose mind, in spite of fate and all, Shall live by fame, although the body fall. JAILER. Why mourneth Marius this recureless chance? MARIUS. I pray thee, jailer, would'st thou gladly die? JAILER. If needs, I would. MARIUS. Yet were you loth to try? JAILER. Why, noble lord, when goods, friends, fortune fail, What more than death might woful man avail?