_Bert._ A thousand, Not to be contradicted. But consider Where your command lies: 'tis not, sir, in France, Spain, Germany, Portugal, but in Sicily; An island, sir. Here are no mines of gold Or silver to enrich you; no worm spins Silk in her womb, to make distinction Between you and a peasant, in your habits; No fish lives near our shores, whose blood can dye Scarlet or purple; all that we possess, With beasts we have in common: nature did Design us to be warriors, and to break through Our ring, the sea, by which we are environ'd; And we by force must fetch in what is wanting, Or precious to us. Add to this, we are A populous nation, and increase so fast, That, if we by our providence are not sent Abroad in colonies, or fall by the sword, Not Sicily, though now it were more fruitful Than when 't was styled the granary of great Rome, Can yield our numerous fry bread: we must starve, Or eat up one another. _Ador._ The king hears With much attention. _Ast._ And seems moved with what Bertoldo hath deliver'd. _Bert._ May you live long, sir, The king of peace, so you deny not us The glory of the war; let not our nerves Shrink up with sloth, nor, for want of employment, Make younger brothers thieves: it is their swords, sir, Must sow and reap their harvest. If examples May move you more than arguments, look on England, The empress of the European isles, And unto whom alone ours yields precedence: When did she flourish so, as when she was The mistress of the ocean, her navies Putting a girdle round about the world? When the Iberian quaked, her worthies named; And the fair flower-de-luce grew pale, set by The red rose and the white? Let not our armour Hung up, or our unrigg'd armada, make us Ridiculous to the late poor snakes our neighbours, Warm'd in our bosoms, and to whom again We may be terrible. Rouse us, sir, from the sleep Of idleness, and redeem our mortgaged honours. Your birth, and justly, claims my father's kingdom; But his heroic mind descends to me: I will confirm so much. _Ador._ In his looks he seems To break ope Janus' temple. _Ast._ How these younglings Take fire from him! _Ador._ It works an alteration Upon the king. _Ant._ I can forbear no longer: War, war, my sovereign! _Ful._ The king appears Resolved, and does prepare to speak. _Rob._ Think not Our counsel 's built upon so weak a base, As to be overturn'd, or shaken, with Tempestuous winds of words. As I, my lord, Before resolved you, I will not engage My person in this quarrel; neither press My subjects to maintain it: yet, to show My rule is gentle, and that I have feeling O' your master's sufferings, since these gallants, weary Of the happiness of peace, desire to taste The bitter sweets of war, we do consent That, as adventurers and volunteers, No way compell'd by us, they may make trial Of their boasted valours.