Valerius. Two valiant Romans; this Horatius Cocles, This gentleman called Mutius Scevola, Who, whilst King Servius wore the diadem, Upheld his sway and princedom by their loves; But he being fallen, since all the peers of Rome Applaud King Tarquin in his sovereignty, They with like suffrage greet your coronation. Horatius. This hand, allied unto the Roman crown, Whom never fear dejected or cast low, Lays his victorious sword at Tarquin’s feet, And prostrates with that sword allegiance. King Servius’ life we loved, but, he expired, Great Tarquin’s life is in our hearts desired. Scevola. Who, whilst he rules with justice and integrity, Shall with our dreadless hands our hearts command, Even with the best employments of our lives. Since fortune lifts thee, we submit to fate: Ourselves are vassals to the Roman state. Tarquin. Your rooms were empty in our train of friends, Which we rejoice to see so well supplied: Receive our grace, live in our clement favours, In whose submission our young glory grows To his ripe height: fall in our friendly train, And strengthen with your loves our infant reign. Horatius. We live for Tarquin. Scevola. And to thee alone, Whilst Justice keeps thy sword and thou thy throne. Tarquin. Then are you ours. And now conduct us straight In triumph through the populous streets of Rome To the king’s palace, our majestic seat. Your hearts, though freely proffered, we entreat. [_Music_. _As they march_, Tullia _treads on_ Servius’s _dead body and pauses_. Tullia. What block is that we tread on? Lucretius. ’Tis the body Of your deceasèd father, madam queen; Your shoe is crimsoned with his vital blood. Tullia. No matter; let his mangled body lie, And with his base confederates strew the streets, That, in disgrace of his usurpèd pride, We o’er his trunk may in our chariot ride; For, mounted like a queen, ’twould do me good To wash my coach-naves[5.12] in my father’s blood. Lucretius. Here’s a good child! Tarquin. Remove it, we command, And bear his carcase to the funeral pile, Where, after this dejection, let it have His solemn and due obsequies. Fair Tullia, Thy hate to him grows from thy love to us; Thou show’st thyself in this unnatural strife An unkind daughter, but a loving wife. But on unto our palace: this blest day, A king’s increase grows by a king’s decay. [_Exeunt_. SCENE III.--_A Public Place in Rome_. _Enter_ Brutus.