_Æcius._ They grieve besides, Sir, To see the Nations, whom our ancient Vertue With many a weary march and hunger conquer'd, With loss of many a daring life subdu'd, Fall from their fair obedience, and even murmur To see the warlike Eagles mew their honours In obscure Towns, that wont to prey on Princes, They cry for Enemies, and tell the Captains The fruits of _Italy_ are luscious, give us _Egypt_, Or sandy _Africk_ to display our valours, There where our Swords may make us meat, and danger Digest our well got Vyands; here our weapons And bodies that were made for shining brass, Are both unedg'd and old with ease and women. And then they cry again, where are the _Germans_, Lin'd with hot _Spain_, or _Gallia_, bring 'em on, And let the Son of War, steel'd _Mithridates_, Lead up his winged _Parthians_ like a storm, Hiding the face of Heaven with showrs of Arrows? Yet we dare fight like _Romans_; then as Souldiers Tir'd with a weary march, they tell their wounds Even weeping ripe they were no more nor deeper, And glory in those scars that make them lovely, And sitting where a Camp was, like sad Pilgrims They reckon up the times, and living labours Of _Julius_ or _Germanicus_, and wonder That _Rome_, whose Turrets once were topt with Honours, Can now forget the Custom of her Conquests; And then they blame your Grace, and say Who leads us, Shall we stand here like Statues? were our Fathers The Sons of lazie Moors, our Princes _Persians_, Nothing but silks and softness? Curses on 'em That first taught _Nero_ wantonness and blood, _Tiberius_ doubts, _Caligula_ all vices; For from the spring of these, succeeding Princes-- Thus they talk, Sir. _Emp._ Well, Why do you hear these things? _Æcius._ Why do you do 'em? I take the gods to witness, with more sorrow, And more vexation do I hear these tainters Than were my life dropt from me through an hour-glass. _Emp._ Belike then you believe 'em, or at least Are glad they should be so; take heed, you were better Build your own Tomb, and run into it living, Than dare a Princes anger. _Æcius._ I am old, Sir, And ten years more addition, is but nothing; Now if my life be pleasing to ye, take it, Upon my knees, if ever any service, (As let me brag some have been worthy notice) If ever any worth, or trust ye gave me Deserv'd a fair respect, if all my actions, The hazards of my youth, colds, burnings, wants, For you, and for the Empire, be not vices; By that stile ye have stampt upon me, Souldier, Let me not fall into the hands of Wretches. _Emp._ I understand you not.