MAN. Great numbers still remain: nay, worse, they laugh At death, and boldly trust (as Druids preach) Their souls who die in fight shall live in joy. Hence count they dangers benefits, and die With freedom in their mouth and wilful rage. But let soft mildness wait on women; let Thy wrath ring through the woods in dusty noise, To tell thy coming. No man's built so lofty, But his foundation meets the humble dust; Which undermin'd, how high he pierc'd the clouds, So deep he sinks. Hostile and civil foes shake top and root, As winds invade above and mines below. And so will we. CÆS. No doubt: this blow shall like an earthquake move The roots and pillars of this sea-clipp'd isle. A cloud of vultures shall attend our camp, And no more shall the fields bear vert, but gules:[336] The grain, engrain'd in purple dye, shall lose His verdant hue. Bones, marrow, human limbs Shall putrifying reek, whose vapour'd slime, Kindl'd on high, may breed long-bearded stars, To tell more mischief, and outbeard Apollo. MAN. Let's waste no time, lest more unto him flock, As humours glide to guard the wounded member. CÆS. Atrius, let our ships be drawn on shore, New-rigg'd and mended. I must needs confess him A darling of the gods, under whose colours Stars, winter, sky, and tempests serve in pay, And know both march and skirmish by his drum. [_Exeunt._ SCENE V. ROLLANO, EULINUS _hearkening_. ROL. O my dear lady, hast thou slain thyself? So fairly pure, so kindly chaste, so---- [_Cries._ A Venus and Diana mix'd in one. She ate her meat with studs of pearl, she kiss'd With rubies, and she look'd with diamonds bright. Fish seas, and fowl the air, hunt all the earth, For such another bit, and lose your labour. EUL. O, why dost thou complain? ROL. Had she not kill'd herself, no cruel Atropos, No fury could for pity cut her thread. She was the loadstone of all eyes, the whetstone Of all brains, the touchstone of all hearts! she was---- [_Cries._ EUL. O, my presaging thoughts in ugly form Suggest some tragedy. Speak--yet stay awhile; I know thou kill'st with speaking. Be then dumb: Let sound ne'er give those notions airy robes. Yet speak! despatch me; fear's as bad as death. O, could no tongue affirm it! Is she dead? ROL. My mistress is.