MESSENGER (_kneels_). Greeting and health from Synorix! More than once You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, You all but yielded. He entreats you now For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus— As I have many a time declared to you— He knew not at the moment who had fasten’d About his throat—he begs you to forget it As scarce his act:—a random stroke: all else Was love for you: he prays you to believe him. CAMMA. I pray him to believe—that I believe him. MESSENGER. Why that is well. You mean to marry him? CAMMA. I mean to marry him—if that be well. MESSENGER. This very day the Romans crown him king For all his faithful services to Rome. He wills you then this day to marry him, And so be throned together in the sight Of all the people, that the world may know You twain are reconciled, and no more feuds Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome. CAMMA. To-day? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. When do they crown him? MESSENGER. Even now. CAMMA. And where? MESSENGER. Here by your temple. CAMMA. Come once more to me Before the crowning,—I will answer you. [_Exit Messenger._ PHŒBE. Great Artemis! O Camma, can it be well, Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a hand Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus? CAMMA. Good! mine own dagger driven by Synorix found All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, And quench’d it there for ever. Wise! Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man Speak well? We cannot fight imperial Rome, But he and I are both Galatian-born, And tributary sovereigns, he and I Might teach this Rome—from knowledge of our people— Where to lay on her tribute—heavily here And lightly there. Might I not live for that, And drown all poor self-passion in the sense Of public good? PHŒBE. I am sure you will not marry him. CAMMA. Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see. [_Shouts (from the distance)_, “Synorix! Synorix!” CAMMA. Synorix, Synorix! So they cried Sinnatus Not so long since—they sicken me. The One Who shifts his policy suffers something, must Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie. PHŒBE. Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted. CAMMA. Their shield-borne patriot of the morning star Hang’d at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn The clamour’d darling of their afternoon! And that same head they would have play’d at ball with, And kick’d it featureless—they now would crown.