_Soph._ Thou art rougher far, And of a couser wale, fuller of pride, Less temperate to bear prosperity. Thou seest my meer neglect hath rais'd in thee A storm more boystrous then the Oceans, My virtue, Patience, makes thee vitious. _Mar._ Why, fair-ey'd Lady, do you kneel? _Dor._ Great Generall, Victorious, godlike _Martius_, your poor handmaid Kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks Thus humbly, that he may not. Listen _Roman_, Thou whose advanced front doth speak thee _Roman_ To every Nation, and whose deeds assure 't; Behold a Princess (whose declining head Like to a drooping lilly after storms Bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave, To keep her husbands greatness unabated: All which doth make thy Conquest greater: For, If he be base in ought whom thou hast taken, Then _Martius_ hath but taken a base prize. But if this Jewell hold lustre and value, _Martius_ is richer then in that he hath won. O make him such a Captive, as thy self Unto another wouldst, great Captain, be; Till then, he is no prisoner fit for thee. _Mar. Valerius_, here is harmonie would have brought Old crabbed _Saturn_ to sweet sleep, when _Jove_ Did first incense him with Rebellion: _Athens_ doth make women Philosophers, And sure their children chat the talk of gods. _Val._ Rise beauteous _Dorigen_. _Dor._ Not untill I know The Generals resolution. _Val._ One soft word From _Sophocles_ would calm him into tears, Like gentle showres after tempestuous winds. _Dor._ To buy the world, he will not give a word, A look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement, And the divine composure of his minde: All which I therefore doe, and here present This Victors wreathe, this rich _Athenian_ sword, Trophies of Conqu[e]st, which, great _Martius_, wear, And be appeas'd: Let _Sophocles_ still live. _Mar._ He would not live. _Dor._ He would not beg to live. When he shall so forget, then I begin To command, _Martius_; and when he kneels, _Dorigen_ stands; when he lets fall a tear, I dry mine eyes, and scorn him. _Mar._ Scorn him now then, Here in the face of _Athens_, and thy friends. Self-will'd, stiff _Sophocles_, prepare to die, And by that sword thy Lady honor'd me, With which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends, Who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me Half _Athens_, and my half of Victorie. _Cap._ By ---- not we. _Nic. Cor._ We two will do it, Sir. _Soph._ Away, ye fish-fac'd Rascals. _Val. Martius_, To Eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame; _Valerius_ thy Brother shall for once Turn Executioner: Give me the sword. Now _Sophocles_, I'll strike as suddenly As thou dar'st die.