CAS. Ay, ay, those treach'rous caitiffs! rebel slaves! O, may their country's heavy curse them sink Below the nine-fold brazen gates of hell! That princock[340] proud!--ah, 'twas a 'scape in policy: I should have slain the whelps with their good sire. Let Britain's climacterical year now run, The series break of seventy kings: nay, let One urn conclude our ashes and the world's. Befall what will, in midst of horror's noise And crackling flames, when all is lost, we'll die With weapons in our hands, and victory scorn: There's none that die so poor as they are born. Faithful Belinus, let a post command The Kentish kings to set upon his fleet, Whilst we here bate. Four thousand charioteers, (Such as did glide upon the Phrygian plains, And (wheeling) double service do perform-- Both horseman's speed and footman's stable strength) Still do remain: with these and flocking voluntaries We'll give him once more battle. Let the captains Enter and hear my charge. _Enter_ CAPTAINS. _He stands on a throne._ Subjects and fellow-soldiers, we must now try For ancient freedom or perpetual bondage: There is no third choice. The enraged foe (With cruel pride, proud avarice) hath spoil'd From East to West, hunting for blood and gain. Your wives and daughters ravish'd, ransack'd towns, Great bellies ripp'd with lances, sprawling babes, The spouse, about her husband's neck, run through By the same spear. Think on these objects; Then choose them for your lords, who spoil and burn Whole countries, and call desolation peace.[341] Yield, yield, that he, ennobled by our spoils, May climb the capitol with triumphant car; You led, fast-fetter'd, through the staring streets, For city dames to mock your habit strange, And fill their arras-hangings with our story. No: Brennus' ghost forbid! who this night stood Before my eyes, and grimly furious spake: Shall Britain stoop to Roman rods and hatchets, And servile tribute? will ye so defame Your ancestors, and your successors wrong, Heirs but of slavery? O, this day make good The glory of so many ages pass'd I see you are incens'd, and wish to use Your weapons, not your ears. ALL. To arms, to arms, to arms! we'll fight and die. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. EULINUS _in a nightcap, unbraced. Viol, poynado._[342] _Plays, and sings to the viol._ _So the silver-feather'd swan,_ _Both by death and colour wan,_ _Loves to sing, before she die,_ _Leaving life so willingly._ _But how can I sing a note,_ _When dead hoarseness stops my throat?_ _Or how can I play a stroke,_ _When my heart-strings are all broke?_