CAS. Fear not; thou know'st I can even with a whistle Hide Kent with glitt'ring arms. More flaming sparkles Paint not a freezing night; nor speckl'd bees Buz not about sweet Hybla's bloomy head. But what need millions, when some thousand serve? O, did my brother live! we'd climb the Alps. Like brave Mulmutius' sons: make Romulus' wolf Howl horror in their streets, and Rome look pale, As when the Punic captain[332] ey'd her walls. [_March out._ CÆSAR, VOLUSENUS, _&c._ CÆS. Are ye the men, who never fought in vain? Who wear Bellona's favours in your scars? Ay, ye are they. What then benumbs our spirits? Our empire from Quirinus' narrow centre Doth circling spread, and finds no brink nor bottom. Titan no later sets nor earlier wakes, Than he beholds our provinces. Why, then, What privilege hath this place? have we or they The Phrygian powers? have they Palladium got? No, no; those gods our capitol keeps with joy; These only have undaunted minds from Troy. _Enter_ Q. ATRIUS. What news, good Atrius? ATRIUS. No good news from Atrius. When ominous earth with shade and cloudy vapours Had darkness doubled, storms began to sound, The dappl'd south, rough-footed Aquilo, Came rushing like two rams, whose steeled horns Dart fiery sparks: the clouds (crush'd) breathe out flames: Thunder and lightning daunt all ears and eyes: The winds and billows strive who loudest roar: The sky distill'd in rain: his room to fill, Ambitious waves would climb the starry hill. Our ships are batter'd all, some forty sunk. CÆS. What devil Cacus drags our fortune back![333] Doth she move retrograde, and hoist us up, That we may fall at height? why doth Camillus Each night torment my sleep, and cry revenge? I strive against the stream. _Enter_ ANDROGEUS, MANDUBRATIUS, _Soldiers_. AND. Thus join we standards; and resign the keys Of Troynovant with all our warlike forces. MAN. By me the Trinobants[334] submit, and Cenimagnians, Segontiacs, Ancalites, Bybrocs, and Cassians: Six worthy nations do desire thy guard. CÆS. All, all shall know our love. MAN. The tyrant lies on Isis' flow'ry banks, Where a full choir sing of white surplic'd swans. The ford's unlevel belly they have fenc'd With sharp stakes under water. CÆS. Nor stakes, lakes, fords, nor swords shall check our progress. Those downy swans shall hear more funeral notes. Their kings departed, Nennius dead, whose loss Would tears extort even from pumicean eyes: Had Britain nurs'd but such another champion, They might have stuck their darts on our barr'd gates, And Latium trembled with contrary fates.[335] In what now lies their hope?