Horatius. Madam, strange news: Prince Sextus by the enemies of Rome Was nobly used, and made their general; Twice hath he met his father in the field, And foiled him by the warlike Sabines’ aid: But how hath he rewarded that brave nation, That in his great disgrace supported him? I’ll tell you, madam: he since the last battle Sent to his father a close messenger To be received to grace, withal demanding What he should do with those his enemies. Great Tarquin from his son receives this news, Being walking in his garden; when the messenger Importuned him for answer, the proud king Lops with his wand the heads of poppies off, And says no more; with this uncertain answer The messenger to Sextus back returns, Who questions of his father’s words, looks, gesture: He tells him that the haughty speechless king Did to the heads of poppies, which bold Sextus Straight apprehends, cuts off the great men’s heads, And, having left the Sabines without govern, Flies to his father, and this day is welcomed For this his traitorous service by the king, With all due solemn honours to the court. Scevola. Courtesy strangely requited; this none but the son of Tarquin would have enterprised. Valerius. I like it, I applaud it; this will come to somewhat in the end; when Heaven has cast up his account, some of them will be called to a hard reckoning. For my part, I dreamt last night I went a-fishing. [_Sings_.] Though the weather jangles With our hooks and our angles, Our nets be shaken, and no fish taken; Though fresh cod and whiting Are not this day biting, Gurnet, nor conger, to satisfy hunger, Yet look to our draught. Hale the main bowling; The seas have left their rolling, The waves their huffing, the winds their puffing: Up to the top-mast, boy, And bring us news of joy; Here’s no demurring, no fish is stirring, Yet something we have caught. Collatine. Leave all to Heaven. _Re-enter_ Clown. Clown. My lords, the best plum-porridge in all Rome cools for your honours; dinner is piping hot upon the table, and if you make not the more haste you are like to have but cold cheer: the cook hath done his part, and there’s not a dish on the dresser but he has made it smoke for you; if you have good stomachs, and come not in while the meat is hot, you’ll make hunger and cold meet together. Collatine. My man’s a rhetorician, I can tell you, And his conceit is fluent. Enter, lords; You must be Lucrece’ guests, and she is scant In nothing, for such princes must not want. [_Exeunt all except_ Valerius _and_ Clown. Clown. My lord Valerius, I have even a suit to your honour. I ha’ not the power to part from you without a relish, a note, a tone; we must get an air betwixt us. Valerius. Thy meaning?