Brutus. What, weeping-ripe, Lucretius! possible? Now lords, lads, friends, fellows, young madcaps, gallants, and old courtly ruffians, all subjects under one tyranny, and therefore should be partners of one and the same unanimity, shall we go single ourselves by two and two, and go talk treason? then ’tis but his yea, and my nay, if we be called to question. Or shall’s go use some violent bustling to break through this thorny servitude? or shall we every man go sit like a man in desperation, and with Lucretius weep at Rome’s misery. Now am I for all things, anything, or nothing. I can laugh with Scevola, weep with this good old man, sing “Oh hone hone” with Valerius, fret with Horatius Cocles, be mad like myself, or neutrize with Collatine. Say, what shall’s do? Horatius. Fret. Valerius. Sing. Lucretius. Weep. Scevola. Laugh. Brutus. Rather let’s all be mad, That Tarquin he still reigneth, Rome’s still sad. Collatine. You are madmen all that yield so much to passion; You lay yourselves too open to your enemies, That would be glad to pry into your deeds, And catch advantage to ensnare our lives; The king’s fear, like a shadow, dogs you still, Nor can you walk without it. I commend Valerius most, and noble Scevola, That what they cannot mend, seem not to mind. By my consent let’s all wear out our hours In harmless sports: hawk, hunt, game, sing, drink, dance, So shall we seem offenceless and live safe In danger’s bloody jaws: where[5.29] being humorous, Cloudy, and curiously inquisitive Into the king’s proceedings, there armed fear May search into us, call our deeds to question, And so prevent all future expectation Of wished amendment. Let us stay the time, Till Heaven have made them ripe for just revenge, When opportunity is offered us, And then strike home; till then do what you please: No discontented thought my mind shall seize. Brutus. I am of Collatine’s mind now. Valerius, sing us a bawdy song, and make’s merry: nay, it shall be so. Valerius. Brutus shall pardon me. Scevola. The time that should have been seriously spent in the state-house, I ha’ learnt securely to spend in a wenching-house, and now I profess myself anything but a statesman. Horatius. The more thy vanity. Lucretius. The less thy honour.