Sextus. Nay, weep not, sweet, what’s done is past recall. Call not thy name in question, by this sorrow, Which is yet without blemish; what hath passed Is hid from the world’s eye, and only private ’Twixt us. Fair Lucrece, pull not on my head The wrath of Rome; if I have done thee wrong, Love was the cause; thy fame is without blot, And thou in Sextus hast a true friend got. Nay, sweet, look up; thou only hast my heart; I must be gone, Lucrece; a kiss and part. Lucrece. Oh! [_She flings from him and exit_. Sextus. No? Peevish dame, farewell! then be the bruiter Of thy own shame, which Tarquin would conceal; I am armed ’gainst all can come; let mischief frown, With all his terror, armed with ominous fate; To all their spleens a welcome I’ll afford, With this bold heart, strong hand and my good sword. [_Exit_. SCENE VI.--_The Camp at Ardea_. _Enter_ Brutus, Valerius, Horatius, Aruns, Scevola, _and_ Collatine. Brutus. What, so early, Valerius, and your voice not up yet? thou wast wont to be my lark, and raise me with thy early notes. Valerius. I was never so hard set yet, my lord, but I had ever a fit of mirth for my friend. Brutus. Prithee, let’s hear it then while we may, for I divine thy music and my madness are both short-lived; we shall have somewhat else to do ere long, we hope, Valerius. Horatius. Jove send it! Valerius. [_Sings_.] Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft, To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark I’ll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them all I’ll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast; Sing, birds, in every furrow, And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow; Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare,[5.62] linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow. Brutus. Methinks our wars go not well forwards, Horatius: we have greater enemies to bustle with than the Ardeans, if we durst but front them. Horatius. Would it were come to fronting! Brutus. Then we married men should have the advantage of the bachelors, Horatius, especially such as have revelling wives, those that can caper in the city while their husbands are in the camp. Collatine, why are you so sad? the thought of this should not trouble you, having a Lucrece to your bedfellow. Collatine. My lord, I know no cause of discontent, yet cannot I be merry. Scevola. Come, come, make him merry; let’s have a song in praise of his Lucrece.