_Mar._ Art sure we have taken him? Is this _Sophocles_? His fettred arms say no; his free soul, I. This _Athens_ nurseth Arts, as well as Arms. _Soph._ Nor glory _Martius_, in this day of thine, 'Tis behind yesterday, but before to morrow: Who knows what Fortune then will do with thee? She never yet could make the better man, The better chance she has: the man that's best She still contends with, and doth favor least. _Mar._ Me thinks a graver thunder then the skies Breaks from his lips; I am amaz'd to hear, And _Athens_ words, more then her swords doth fear. _Soph. Martius_, slave _Sophocles_, couldst thou acquire (And did thy Roman gods so love thy prayers, And solemn sacrifice, to grant thy suit) To gather all the valour of the _Cæsars_ Thy Predecessors, and what is to come, And by their influence fling it on thee now, Thou couldst not make my mind go less, not pare With all their swords one virtue from my soul: How am I vassall'd then? Make such thy slaves, As dare not keep their goodness past their graves. Know General, we two are chances on The die of Fate; now thrown, thy six is up, And my poor one beneath thee, next th[y] throw May set me upmost, and cast thee below. _Mar._ Yet will I trie thee more: Calamitie Is mans true touchstone: Listen insolent Prince, That dar'st contemn the Master of thy life, Which I will force here 'fore thy City walls With barbarous crueltie, and call thy wife To see it, and then after send her-- _Soph._ Ha, ha, ha. _Mar._ And then demolish _Athens_ to the ground, Depopulate her, fright away her fame, And leave succession neither stone nor name. _Soph._ Ha, ha, ha. _Mar._ Dost thou deride me? _Val._ Kneel, ask _Martius_ For mercy, _Sophocles_, and live happy still. _Soph._ Kneel, and ask mercie? (_Roman_) art a god? I never kneel'd, or begg'd of any else. Thou art a fool, and I will loose no more Instructions on thee: now I find thy eares [_Solemn Musick._ _Enter Dorigen, Ladyes bearing a sword._ Are foolish, like thy tongue. My _Dorigen_? Oh! must she see me bound? _1 Cap._ There's the first sigh He breath'd since he was born, I think. _2 Cap._ Forbear, All but the Lady his wife. _Soph._ How my heart chides The manacles of my hands, that let them not Embrace my _Dorigen_. _Val._ Turn but thy face. And ask thy life of _Martius_ thus, and thou (With thy fair wife) shalt live; _Athens_ shall stand, And all her priviledges augmented be. _Soph._ 'Twere better _Athens_ perish'd, and my wife Which (Romans) I do know a worthie one, Then _Sophocles_ should shrink of _Sophocles_, Commit profane Idolatry, by giving The reverence due to gods to thee blown man. _Mar._ Rough, stubborn Cynick.