Horatius. Since he was king he bears him like a god, His wife like Pallas, or the wife of Jove; Will not be spoke to without sacrifice, And homage sole due to the deities. _Enter_ Lucretius. Scevola. What haste with good Lucretius? Lucretius. Haste, but small speed. I had an earnest suit unto the king, About some business that concerns the weal Of Rome and us; ’twill not be listened to. He has took upon him such ambitious state That he abandons conference with his peers, Or, if he chance to endure our tongues so much As but to hear their sonance, he despises The intent of all our speeches, our advices, And counsel, thinking his own judgment only To be approved in matters military, And in affairs domestic; we are but mutes, And fellows of no parts, viols unstrung, Our notes too harsh to strike in princes’ ears. Great Jove amend it! Horatius. Whither will you, my lord? Lucretius. No matter where, If from the court. I’ll home to Collatine And to my daughter Lucrece: home breeds safety, Danger’s begot in court; a life retired Must please me now perforce: then, noble Scevola, And you my dear Horatius, farewell both. Where industry is scorned let’s welcome sloth. _Enter_ Collatine. Horatius. Nay, good Lucretius, do not leave us thus. See, here comes Collatine; but where’s Valerius? How does he taste these times? Collatine. Not giddily like Brutus, passionately Like old Lucretius with his tear-swollen eyes; Not laughingly like Mutius Scevola, Nor bluntly like Horatius Cocles here; He has usurped a stranger garb of humour, Distinct from these in nature every way. Lucretius. How is he relished? can his eyes forbear In this strange state to shed a passionate tear? Scevola. Can he forbear to laugh with Scevola, At that which passionate weeping cannot mend? Horatius. Nay, can his thought shape aught but melancholy To see these dangerous passages of state? How is he tempered, noble Collatine? Collatine. Strangely; he is all song, he’s ditty all, Note that: Valerius hath given up the court, And weaned himself from the king’s consistory, In which his sweet harmonious tongue grew harsh. Whether it be that he is discontent, Yet would not so appear before the king, Or whether in applause of these new edicts, Which so distaste the people, or what cause I know not, but now he’s all musical. Unto the council chamber he goes singing, And whilst the king his wilful edicts makes, In which none’s tongue is powerful save the king’s, He’s in a corner, relishing strange airs. Conclusively, he’s from a toward hopeful gentleman, Transhaped to a mere ballater,[5.17] none knowing Whence should proceed this transmutation. _Enter_ Valerius. Horatius. See where he comes. Morrow, Valerius. Lucretius. Morrow, my lord.