SYLLA. Now, by my sword, this was a worthy jest.[159] Yet, silly boy, I needs must pity thee, Whose noble mind could never mated be. Believe me, countrymen, a sudden thought, A sudden change in Sylla now hath wrought. Old Marius and his son were men of name, Nor fortune's laughs nor low'rs their minds could tame, And when I count their fortunes that are past, I see that death confirm'd their fames at last. Then he that strives to manage mighty things, Amidst his triumphs gains a troubled mind. The greatest hope, the greatest harm it brings, And poor men in content their glory find. If then content be such a pleasant thing, Why leave I country life to live a king? Yet kings are gods, and make the proudest stoop; Yea, but themselves are still pursued with hate: And men were made to mount and then to droop. Such chances wait upon uncertain fate. That where she kisseth once, she quelleth twice; Then whoso lives content is happy, wise. What motion moveth this philosophy? O Sylla, see the ocean ebbs and flows;[160] The spring-time wanes, when winter draweth nigh: Ay, these are true and most assured notes. Inconstant chance such tickle turns has lent. As whoso fears no fall, must seek content. FLACCUS. Whilst graver thoughts of honour should allure thee, What maketh Sylla muse and mutter thus? SYLLA. I, that have pass'd amidst the mighty troops Of armed legions, through a world of war, Do now bethink me, Flaccus, of my chance: How I alone, where many men were slain, In spite of fate am come to Rome again. And though[161] I wield the reverend stiles of state; She[162], Sylla, with a beck could break thy neck. What lord of Rome hath dar'd as much as I? Yet, Flaccus, know'st thou not that I must die? The labouring sisters on the weary looms Have drawn my web of life at length, I know; And men of wit must think upon their tombs: For beasts with careless steps to Lethe go Where men, whose thoughts and honours climb on high, Living with fame, must learn with fame to die. POMPEY. What lets, my lord, in governing this state, To live in rest, and die with honour too? SYLLA. What lets me, Pompey? why, my courteous friend, Can he remain secure that wields a charge, Or think of wit when flatterers do commend, Or be advis'd that careless runs at large? No, Pompey: honey words make foolish minds, And pow'r the greatest wit with error blinds. Flaccus, I murder'd Anthony, thy friend; Romans, some here have lost at my command Their fathers, mothers, brothers, and allies; And think you, Sylla, thinking these misdeeds, Bethinks not on your grudges and mislike? Yes, countrymen, I bear them still in mind: Then, Pompey, were I not a silly man To leave my rule, and trust these Romans then? POMPEY. Your grace hath small occasions of mistrust, Nor seek these citizens for your disclaim.