Caratach, _General of the_ Britains, _Cosin to_ Bonduca. Nenius, _A great Soldier, a_ Britain _Commander_. Hengo, _A brave boy, Nephew to_ Caratach. Suetonius, _General to the_ Roman _Army in_ Britain. Penius, _A brave_ Roman _Commander, but stubborn to the General_. Junius, _A_ Roman _Captain, in love with_ Bonduca's _Daughter_. Petilus, _A merry Captain, but somewhat wanton._ Demetrius, Decius, _Two_ Roman _Commanders_. Regulus, Drusus, Macer, Curius, _Four_ Roman _Officers_. Judas, _A Corporal, a merry hungry knave_. Herald. Druides. Soldiers. _WOMEN._ Bonduca, _Queen of the_ Iceni, _a brave_ Virago, _by_ Prosutagus. _Her two Daughters._ * * * * * _The Scene_ Britain. * * * * * The Principal Actors were _Richard Burbadge_, _Henry Condel_, _William Eglestone_, _Nich. Toolie_, _William Ostler_, _John Lowin_, _John Underwood_, _Richard Robinson_. _Actus Primus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Bonduca, Daughters, Hengo, Nennius, Soldiers. _Bon._ The hardy _Romans_? O ye gods of _Britain_, The rust of Arms, the blushing shame of soldiers; Are these the men that conquer by inheritance! The Fortune-makers? these the _Julians_. _Enter_ Caratach. That with the Sun measure the end of Nature, Making the World but one _Rome_ and one _Cæsar_? Shame, how they flee! _Cæsars_ soft soul dwells in 'em; Their Mothers got 'em sleeping, Pleasure nurst 'em, Their Bodies sweat with sweet Oils, Loves allurements, Not lustie Arms. Dare they send these to seek us, These _Roman_ Girls? Is _Britain_ grown so wanton? Twice we have beat 'em, _Nennius_ scatter'd 'em, And through their big-bon'd _Germans_, on whose Pikes The honour of their actions sit in triumph, Made Themes for Songs to shame 'em, and a Woman, A Woman beat 'em, _Nennius_; a weak Woman, A Woman beat these _Romans_. _Car._ So it seems. A man would shame to talk so. _Bon._ Who's that? _Car._ I. _Bon._ Cosin, do you grieve at my fortunes? _Car._ No, _Bonduca_, If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of your fortunes; You put too much wind to your sail: Discretion And hardy valour are the twins of honour, And nurs'd together, make a Conqueror: Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth. That _Rome_ has fled before us twice, and routed; A truth we ought to crown the gods for, Lady, And not our tongues. A truth is none of ours, Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing: For then it leaves to be a virtue, Lady; And we that have been Victors, beat our selves, When we insult upon our honors subject. _Bon._ My valiant Cosin, is it foul to say What liberty and honor bid us do, And what the gods allow us?