Valerius. Content. [_Sings_.] On two white columns arched she stands; Some snow would think them, sure, Some crystal, other lilies stripped, But none of those so pure. This beauty when I contemplate, What riches I behold! ’Tis roofed within with virtuous thoughts, Without, ’tis thatched with gold. Two doors there are to enter at: The one I’ll not inquire, Because concealed; the other seen, Whose sight inflames desire. Whether the porch be coral clear, Or with rich crimson lined, Or rose-leaves, lasting all the year, It is not yet divined. Her eyes not made of purest glass, Or crystal, but transpareth; The life of diamonds they surpass, Their very sight ensnareth. That which without we rough-cast call, To stand ’gainst wind and weather, For its rare beauty equals all That I have named together. For, were it not by modest art Kept from the sight of skies, It would strike dim the sun itself, And daze the gazer’s eyes. The case so rich, how may we praise The jewel lodged within? To draw their praise I were unwise, To wrong them it were sin. Aruns. I should be frolic if my brother were but returned to the camp. Horatius. And, in good time, behold Prince Sextus. _Enter_ Sextus. All. Health to our general. Sextus. Thank you. Brutus. Will you survey your forces, and give order for a present assault? Your soldiers long to be tugging with the Ardeans. Sextus. No. Collatine. Have you seen Lucretia, my lord? how fares she? Sextus. Well; I’ll to my tent. Aruns. Why, how now! what’s the matter, brother? [_Exeunt_ Aruns _and_ Sextus. Brutus. “Thank you.” “No.” “Well; I’ll to my tent.” Get thee to thy tent, and a coward go with thee, if thou hast no more spirit to a speedy encounter. Valerius. Shall I go after him, and know the cause of his discontent? Scevola. Or I, my lord? Brutus. Neither; to pursue a fool in his humour is the next way to make him more humorous. I’ll not be guilty of his folly; thank you, no! Before I wish him health again when he is sick of the sullens, may I die, not like a Roman, but like a runagate! Scevola. Perhaps he’s not well. Brutus. Well, then, let him be ill. Valerius. Nay, if he be dying, as I could wish he were, I’ll ring out his funeral peal; and this it is. Come, list and hark; The bell doth toll, For some but now Departing soul. And was not that Some ominous fowl, The bat, the night- Crow, or screech-owl? To these I hear The wild wolf howl In this black night That seems to scowl. All these my black- Book shall enroll, For hark! still, still The bell doth toll For some but now Departing soul.