Tullia. And I’ll, sweet Tarquin, to my power guard thine. Come on, ye slaves, and make this earth divine! [_Alarum_. Tarquin _and_ Tullia _are slain_. _Enter_ Brutus _all bloody_. Brutus. Aruns, this crimson favour, for thy sake, I’ll wear upon my forehead masked with blood, Till all the moisture in the Tarquins’ veins Be spilt upon the earth, and leave thy body As dry as the parched summer, burnt and scorched With the canicular stars. Horatius. Aruns lies dead By this bright sword that towered about his head. Collatine. And see, great consul, where the pride of Rome Lies sunk and fallen. Valerius. Beside him lies the queen, Mangled and hewn amongst the Roman soldiers. Horatius. Lift up their slaughtered bodies; help to rear them Against this hill in view of all the camp: This sight will be a terror to the foe, And make them yield or fly. Brutus. But where’s the ravisher, Injurious Sextus, that we see not him? [_Short alarum_. _Enter_ Sextus. Sextus. Through broken spears, cracked swords, unbowelled steeds, Flawed armours, mangled limbs, and battered casques, Knee-deep in blood, I ha’ pierced the Roman host To be my father’s rescue. Horatius. ’Tis too late; His mounting pride’s sunk in the people’s hate. Sextus. My father, mother, brother! Fortune, now I do defy thee; I expose myself To horrid danger; safety I despise: I dare the worst of peril; I am bound On till this pile of flesh be all one wound. Valerius. Begirt him, lords; this is the ravisher; There’s no revenge for Lucrece till he fall. Lucretius. Seize Sextus, then-- Sextus. Sextus defies you all! Yet will you give me language ere I die? Brutus. Say on. Sextus. ’Tis not for mercy, for I scorn that life That’s given by any; and, the more to add To your immense unmeasurable hate, I was the spur unto my father’s pride; ’Twas I that awed the princes of the land; That made thee, Brutus, mad, these discontent: I ravished the chaste Lucrece; Sextus, I,-- Thy daughter,--and thy wife,--Brutus, thy cousin,-- Allied, indeed, to all; ’twas for my rape Her constant[5.70] hand ripped up her innocent breast: ’Twas Sextus did all this. Collatine. Which I’ll revenge. Horatius. Leave that to me. Lucretius. Old as I am, I’ll do’t. Scevola. I have one hand left yet, of strength enough To kill a ravisher.