AND. Usurpers use this method still: at first He as protector slily got the stern, During our nonage: then the commons' voice, Bought with a fawning brow and popular grace, Confirms his regiment;[319] we appointed sharers, With empty titles to beguile our thoughts, Like puppet-lords dress'd up with crown and scarf, Glad that we live and hunt, and reign o'er brutes-- Our uncle is the king who,[320] when he saw His throne establish'd and his foes repuls'd, Grown big with prosperous fortune, proudly spurns All fear of God or man. MAN. His anger, nurs'd by jealousies, must feed On princes' flesh, who lose both state and life, If they but look awry. A tyrant's growth, Rear'd up by ruins, thence may learn his fall: For whom all fear, he justly feareth all. AND. In antiphons[321] thus tune we female plaints; But plots and force beseem us. Thus great Cæsar Shall pull him down below us. Thou, Mandubrace, Sure pledges take of our revolt, and quickly Implore his aid, blow up his drooping fire With hopeful terms. But let him stronger come. MAN. I fly unseen, as charmers[322] in a mist. Grateful revenge, whose sharp-sweet relish fats My apprehensive soul![323] though all were pared off Which doth accrue from fortune, and a man left As barely poor as nature thrust him out; Nay worse--though spirits boil: rage, anger, care, And grief, like wild-horse, tear the affrighted mind; Though wrongs excoriate the heart; yet all is sweeten'd If vengeance have her course. I reck[324] not how; Let commonwealth expire, and owls proclaim Sad desolation in our halls; let heaps Of dust and rubbish epitaph our towns; Let fire and water fight, who first shall spoil This universal frame. From north or south, Revenge, th' art welcome! No sin worse than pity; A tyrant's only physic is phlebotomy. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IX. _Chorus._ _1st Song._ _Rejoice, O Britain!_ _Britain, O, rejoice!_ _The stormy cloud pass'd o'er,_ _And only made a noise._ _A clattering sound was heard,_ _And still we felt no wound:_ _Rejoice, rejoice,_ _Thou happy Britons' ground._ _O that sweet Plenides,_ _Eloquent Orone,_ _Were now to chant our victories_ _With a melodious tone;_ _And rousing echo from the dales,_ _With Harmony to sound:_ _Rejoice, rejoice,_ _Thou happy Britons' ground._ _2d Song_ _Gang, ye lads and lasses,_ _Sa wimble and sa wight:_ _Fewl mickle teen betide ye,_ _If ye ligg in this plight._ _Be bonny, buxom, jolly,_ _Trip haydegues[325] belive;_ _And gif night gars the welkin merk,_ _Tom piper do you blive._