_Bond._ I thank ye, ye say well; But mercy and love are sins in _Rome_ and hell. _Swet._ Ye cannot scape our strength; ye must yield, Lady, Ye must adore and fear the power of _Rome_. _[B]ond._ If _Rome_ be earthly, why should any knee With bending adoration worship her? She's vitious; and your partial selves confess, Aspires the height of all impiety: Therefore 'tis fitter I should reverence The thatched houses where the _Britains_ dwell In careless mirth, where the blest houshold gods See nought but chast and simple purity. 'Tis not high power that makes a place divine, Nor that the men from gods derive their line. But sacred thoughts in holy bosoms stor'd, Make people noble, and the place ador'd. _Swet._ Beat the wall deeper. _Bond._ Beat it to the center, We will not sink one thought. _Swet._ I'll make ye. _Bond._ No. _2. Dau._ O mother, these are fearful hours: speak gently. _Enter_ Petillius. To these fierce men, they will afford ye pitty. _Bond._ Pitty? thou fearful girl; 'tis for those wretches That misery makes tame. Wouldst thou live less? Wast not thou born a Princess? Can my blood, And thy brave fathers spirit, suffer in thee So base a separation from thy self, As mercy from these Tyrants? Thou lov'st lust sure, And long'st to prostitute thy youth and beauty To common slaves for bread. Say they had mercy; The divel a relenting conscience: The lives of Kings rest in their Diadems, Which to their bodies lively souls do give, And ceasing to be Kings, they cease to live. Show such another fear, and ---- I'll fling thee to their fury. _Swet._ He is dead then? _Petill._ I think so certainly; yet all my means, Sir, Even to the hazzard of my life-- _Swet._ No more: We must not seem to mourn here. _Enter_ Decius. _Dec._ There's a breach made, Is it your will we charge, Sir? _Swet._ Once more mercy, Mercy to all that yield. _Bond._ I scorn to answer: Speak to him girl; and hear thy Sister. _1. Dau._ General, Hear me, and mark me well, and look upon me Directly in my face, my womans face. Whose only beauty is the hate it bears ye; See with thy narrowest eyes, thy sharpest wishes, Into my soul, and see what there inhabits; See if one fear, one shadow of a terror, One paleness dare appear but from my anger, To lay hold on your mercies. No, ye fools, Poor fortunes fools, we were not born for triumphs, To follow your gay sports, and fill your slaves With hoots and acclamations. _Petill._ Brave behaviour.