Collatine. Why, what is ale? Clown. Why, ale is a kind of juice made of the precious grain called malt; and what is malt? Malt’s M A L T; and what is M A L T? M much, A ale, L little, T thrift; that is, much ale, little thrift. Collatine. Only the news at home, and I have done? Clown. My lady must needs speak with you about earnest business, that concerns her nearly, and I was sent in all haste to entreat your lordship to come away. Collatine. And couldst thou not have told me? Lucrece stay, And I stand trifling here! Follow, away! Clown. Ay, marry, sir, the way into her were a way worth following, and that’s the reason that so many serving-men that are familiar with their mistresses have lost the name of servitors, and are now called their masters’ followers. Rest you merry! [_Music_. SCENE II.--_The Temple at Delphi_. _Enter_ Apollo’s Priests, _with tapers; after them_, Aruns, Sextus, _and_ Brutus, _with their oblations, all kneeling before the Oracle_. Priest. O thou Delphian god, inspire Thy priests, and with celestial fire Shot from thy beams crown our desire, That we may follow, In these thy true and hallowed measures, The utmost of thy heavenly treasures, According to the thoughts and pleasures Of great Apollo. Our hearts with inflammations burn, Great Tarquin and his people mourn, Till from thy temple we return, With some glad tiding. Then tell us, shall great Rome be blest, And royal Tarquin live in rest, That gives his high-ennobled breast To thy safe guiding? Oracle. Then Rome her ancient honours wins, When she is purged from Tullia’s sins. Brutus. Gramercies, Phœbus, for these spells! Phœbus alone, alone excels. Sextus. Tullia perhaps sinned in our grandsire’s death, And hath not yet by reconcilement made Atone with Phœbus, at whose shrine we kneel; Yet, gentle priest, let us thus far prevail, To know if Tarquin’s seed shall govern Rome, And by succession claim the royal wreath? Behold me, younger of the Tarquins’ race, This elder Aruns, both the sons of Tullia; This Junius Brutus, though a madman, yet Of the high blood of the Tarquins. Priest. Sextus, peace. Tell us, O thou that shin’st so bright, From whom the world receives his light, Whose absence is perpetual night, Whose praises ring: Is it with Heaven’s applause decreed, When Tarquin’s soul from earth is freed, That noble Sextus shall succeed In Rome as king? Brutus. Ay, oracle, hast thou lost thy tongue? Aruns. Tempt him again, fair priest. Sextus. If not as king, let Delphian Phœbus yet Thus much resolve us: who shall govern Rome, Or of us three bear great’st pre-eminence?