SYLLA. Pompey, I love thee, Pompey, and consent To thy request; but, Romans, have regard, Lest over-reaching in offence again, I load your shoulders with a double pain. [_Exeunt citizens. Bring in_ CARBO _bound_. But, Pompey, see where jolly Carbo comes, Footing it featly like a mighty man. What, no obeisance, sirrah, to your lord? CARBO[151]. My lord? No, Sylla: he that thrice hath borne The name of consul scorns to stoop to him, Whose heart doth hammer nought but mutinies. POMPEY. And doth your lordship then disdain to stoop? CARBO. Ay, to mine equal, Pompey, as thou art. SYLLA. Thine equal, villain? no, he is my friend; Thou, but a poor anatomy of bones, Cas'd in a knavish tawny withered skin. Wilt thou not stoop? art thou so stately then? CARBO. Sylla, I honour gods, not foolish men. SYLLA. Then break that wither'd bough, that will not bend[152], And, soldiers, cast him down before my feet: [_They throw him down_. Now, prating sir, my foot upon thy neck, I'll be so bold to give your lordship check. Believe me, soldiers, but I over-reach; Old Carbo's neck at first was made to stretch. CARBO. Though body bend, thou tyrant most unkind, Yet never shalt thou humble Carbo's mind. SYLLA. O sir, I know, for all your warlike pith A man may mar your worship with a with.[153] You, sirrah, levied arms to do me wrong; You brought your legions to the gates of Rome; You fought it out in hope that I would faint; But, sirrah, now betake you to your books, Entreat the gods to save your sinful soul: For why this carcase must in my behalf Go feast the ravens that serve our augurs' turn. Methinks I see already, how they wish To bait their beaks in such a jolly dish. CARBO. Sylla, thy threats and scoffs amate me not. I prythee, let thy murderers hale me hence; For Carbo rather likes to die by sword, Than live to be a mocking-stock to thee. SYLLA. The man hath haste; good soldiers, take him hence: It would be good to alter his pretence. But be advis'd that, when the fool is slain, You part the head and body both in twain. I know that Carbo longs to know the cause, And shall: thy body for the ravens[154], thy head for daws. CARBO. O matchless ruler of our capitol, Behold poor Rome with grave and piteous eye Fulfilled with wrong and wretched tyranny! [_Exit_ CARBO _cum militibus. Enter_ SCIPIO, NORBANUS, _and_ CARINNA.[155] SYLLA. Tut, the proud man's prayer will never pierce the sky. But whither press these mincing senators? NORBANUS. We press with prayers, we come with mournful tears, Entreating Sylla by those holy bands, That link fair Juno with her thundering Jove, Even by the bonds of hospitality, To pity Rome afflicted through thy wrath. Thy soldiers (Sylla) murder innocents: O, whither will thy lawless fury stretch, If little ruth ensue thy country's harms?