_Bond._ That's a good wench, mine own sweet girl; put it close to thee. _2. Daugh._ Oh comfort me still for heavens sake. _1. Daugh._ Where eternal Our youths are, and our beauties; where no Wars come, Nor lustful slaves to ravish us. _2. Daugh._ That steels me: A long farewel to this world. _Bond._ Good: I'll help thee. _1 Daugh._ The next is mine. Shew me a _Roman_ Lady in all [y]our stories, Dare do this for her honor: they are cowards, Eat coals like compell'd Cats: your great Saint _Lucrece_ Dy'd not for honor; _Tarquin_ topt her well, And mad she could not hold him, bled. _Petil._ By ---- [I] am in love: I would give an hundred pound now But to lie with this womans behaviour. Oh the devil. _1 Daugh._ Ye shall see me example, All your _Rome_, If I were proud and lov'd ambition; If I were lustful, all your ways of pleasure; If I were greedy, all the wealth ye conquer-- _Bond._ Make haste. _1 Daugh._ I will. Could not intice to live But two short hours this frailty: would ye learn How to die bravely _Romans_, to fling off This case of flesh, lose all your cares for ever? Live as we have done, well, and fear the gods, Hunt Honor, and not Nations with your swords, Keep your minds humble, your devotions high; So shall ye learn the noblest part, to die. [_Dies._ _B[o]nd._ I come, wench; to ye all Fates hangmen; you That ease the aged destinies, and cut The threds of Kingdoms, as they draw 'em: here, Here's the draft would ask no less than _Cæsar_ To pledge it for the glories sake. _Cur._ Great Lady. _Swet._ Make up your own conditions. _Bond._ So we will. _Swet._ Stay. _Dem._ Stay. _Swet._ Be any thing. _Bond._ A Saint, _Swetonius_, When thou shalt fear, and die like a slave. Ye fools, Ye should have ti'd up death first, when ye conquer'd, Ye sweat for us in vain else: see him here, He's ours still, and our friend; laughs at your pities; And we command him with as easie reins As do our enemies. I feel the poison. Poor vanquish'd _Romans_, with what matchless tortures Could I now rack ye! But I pittie ye, Desiring to die quiet: nay, so much I hate to prosecute my victory, That I will give ye counsel e'r I die. If you will keep your Laws and Empire whole, Place in your _Romans_ flesh, a _Britain_ soul. [_Dies._ _Enter_ Decius. _Swet._ Desperate and strange. _Dec._ 'Tis won, Sir, and the _Britains_ All put to th' sword. _Swet._ Give her fair Funeral; She was truly noble, and a Queen. _Pet._ ---- Take it, A Love-mange grown upon me? what, a spirit? _Jun._ I am glad of this, I have found ye. _Petil._ In my belly, Oh how it tumbles! _Jun._ Ye good gods, I thank ye. [_Exeunt._