Brutus. Adding withal, that to depose the late king, which in others had been arch-treason, in Tarquin was honour; what in Brutus had been usurpation, in Tarquin was lawful succession; and for Tullia, though it be parricide for a child to kill her father, in Tullia it was charity by death to rid him of all his calamities. Phœbus himself said she was a good child--and shall not I say as he says?--to tread upon her father’s skull, Sparkle his brains upon her chariot-wheel, And wear the sacred tincture of his blood Upon her servile shoe. But more than this, After his death deny him the due claim Of all mortality, a funeral, An earthen sepulchre--this, this, quoth the oracle, Save Tullia none would do. Tullia. Brutus, no more, Lest with the eyes of wrath and fury incensed We look into thy humour: were not madness And folly to thy words a privilege, Even in thy last reproof of our proceedings Thou hadst pronounced thy death. Brutus. If Tullia will send Brutus abroad for news, and after at his return not endure the telling of it, let Tullia either get closer ears, or get for Brutus a stricter tongue. Tullia. How, sir! Brutus. God be wi’ ye. [_Exit_. Tarquin. Alas, ’tis madness--pardon him--not spleen; Nor is it hate, but frenzy. We are pleased To hear the gods propitious to our prayers. But whither’s Sextus gone? resolve us, Cocles; We saw thee in his parting follow him. Horatius. I heard him say, he would straight take his horse And to the warlike Sabines, enemies To Rome and you. Tarquin. Save them we have no opposites. Dares the proud boy confederate with our foes? Attend us, lords; we must new battle wage, And with bright arms confront the proud boy’s rage. [_Exeunt all but_ Lucretius, Collatine, Horatius, Valerius, _and_ Scevola. Horatius. Had I as many souls as drops of blood In these branched veins, as many lives as stars Stuck in yond azure roof, and were to die More deaths than I have wasted weary minutes To grow to this, I’d hazard all and more To purchase freedom to this bondaged Rome. I’m vexed to see this virgin conqueress Wear shackles in my sight. Lucretius. Oh, would my tears Would rid great Rome of these prodigious fears! _Re-enter_ Brutus.