SYLLA. Grave senators and Romans, now you see The humble bent of Sylla's changed mind. Now will I leave you, lords, from courtly train To dwell content amidst my country cave, Where no ambitious humours shall approach The quiet silence of my happy sleep: Where no delicious jouissance or toys Shall tickle with delight my temper'd ears; But wearying out the lingering day with toil, Tiring my veins, and furrowing of my soul, The silent night, with slumber stealing on, Shall lock these careful closets of mine eyes. O, had I known the height of happiness, Or bent mine eyes upon my mother-earth, Long since, O Rome, had Sylla with rejoice Forsaken arms to lead a private life! FLACCUS. But in this humbleness of mind, my lord, Whereas experience prov'd and art do meet, How happy were these fair Italian fields, If they were graced with so sweet a sun. Then I for Rome, and Rome with me, requires That Sylla will abide, and govern Rome. SYLLA. O Flaccus, if th'Arabian phoenix strive By nature's warning to renew her kind, When, soaring nigh the glorious eye of heaven, She from her cinders doth revive her sex, Why should not Sylla learn by her to die, That erst have been the Phoenix of this land? And drawing near the sunshine of content, Perish obscure to make your glories grow. For as the higher trees do shield the shrubs From posting Phlegon's[166] warmth and breathing fire, So mighty men obscure each other's fame, And make the best deservers fortune's game. _Enter_ GENIUS. But ah, what sudden furies do affright? What apparitious fantasies are these? O, let me rest, sweet lords, for why methinks Some fatal spells are sounded in mine ears. GENIUS. _Subsequitur tua mors: privari lumine Syllam, Numina Parcarum jam fera precipiunt Precipiunt fera jam Parcarum numina Syllam Lumine privari: mors tua subsequitur. Elysium petis, ô faelix! et fatidici astri Praescius: Heroes, ô, petis innumeros! Innumeros petis, ô, Heroes, praescius astri Fatidici: et faelix, ô, petis Elysium_! [Evanescit subitò. SYLLA. _Ergó-ne post dulces annos properantia fata? Ergo-ne jam tenebrae praemia lucis erunt? Attamen, ut vitae fortunam gloria mortis Vincat, in extremo funere cantet olor_. POMPEY. How fares my lord? what dreadful thoughts are these? What doubtful answers on a sudden thus? SYLLA. Pompey, the man that made the world to stoop, And fetter'd fortune in the chains of power, Must droop and draw the chariot of fate Along the darksome banks of Acheron. The heavens have warn'd me of my present fall. O, call Cornelia forth: let Sylla see His daughter Fulvia, ere his eyes be shut. [_Exit one for_ CORNELIA. FLACCUS. Why, Sylla, where is now thy wonted hope In greatest hazard of unstayed chance. What, shall a little biting blast of pain Blemish the blossoms of thy wonted pride?