 | Valentinian |  |
SCENE IV.
Enter Phidius, Aretus, and Æcius.Aret.
The Treason is too certain; fly my Lord.
I heard that Villain Proculus instruct
The desperate Pontius to dispatch you here,
Here in the Anti-Chamber.
Phid.
Curst Wretches,
Yet you may escape to the Camp, we'l hazard with you.
Aret.
Lose not your Life so basely Sir; you are arm'd.
And many when they see your Sword, and know why,
Must follow your Adventures.
Æcius.
Get ye from me.
Is not the Doom of Cæsar on this Body?
Do I not bear my last hour here now sent me?
Am I not old Æcius ever dying?
You think this Tenderness and Love you bring me;
'Tis Treason and the strength of Disobedience;
And if ye tempt me further ye shall feel it.
I seek the Camp for safety, when my Death,
Ten times more glorious then my Life and lasting,
Bids me be happy. Let Fools fear to dye,
Or he that weds a Woman for his Honour,
Dreaming no other Life to come but Kisses.
Æcius is not now to learn to suffer;
If ye dare shew a just affection, kill me,
I stay but those that must; why do ye weep?
Am I so wretched as to deserve mens Pities?
Go, give your Tears to those that lose their worths,
Bewail their miseries: For me, wear Garlands,
Drink Wine, and much. Sing Pæans to my Praise,
I am to triumph, Friends, and more than Cæsar,
For Cæsar fears to dye, I love to dye.
Phid.
O my dear Lord!
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No more, go, go I say,
Shew me not signs of sorrow, I deserve none.
Dare any man lament I should dye nobly?
When I am dead, speak honourably of me;
That is, preserve my Memory from dying,
There if you needs must weep your ruin'd Master,
A Tear or two will seem well; This I charge you,
(Because ye say ye yet love old Æcius.)
See my poor Body burnt, and some to sing
About my Pile what I have done and suffer'd.
If Cæsar kill not that too: At your Banquets,
When I am gone, if any chance to number
The times that have been sad and dangerous;
Say how I fell, and 'tis sufficient.
No more I say; he that laments my end,
By all the Gods, dishonours me; be gone,
And suddenly and wisely from my Dangers,
My Death is catching else.
Phid.
We fear not dying.
Æcius.
Yet fear a wilful Death, the just Gods hate it,
I need no Company to that, that Children
Dare do alone, and Slaves are proud to purchase,
Live till your honesties, as mine has done,
Make this corrupted Age sick of your Virtues.
Then dye a Sacrifice, and then you'l know
The noble use of dying well and Romans.
Aret.
And must we leave you Sir?
Æcius.
We must all dye,
All leave our selves, it matters not where, when
Nor how, so we dye well. And can that man that does so,
Need Lamentation for him? Children weep
Because they have offended, or for fear;
Women for want of Will and Anger; is there
In noble man, that truly feels both Poyses
Of Life and Death, so much of this weakness,
To drown a glorious Death in Child and Woman?
I am asham'd to see you, yet you move me,
And were it not my Manhood would accuse me,
For covetous to live, I should weep with you.
Phid.
O we shall never see you more!
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'Tis true.
Nor I the Miseries that Rome shall suffer,
Which is a Benefit Life cannot reckon;
But what I have been, which is just and faithful;
One that grew old for Rome, when Rome forgot him,
And for he was an honest man durst dye.
Ye shall have daily with you, could that dye too,
And I return no Traffick of my Travels,
No Annals of old Æcius, but he lived.
My Friends, ye had cause to weep, and bitterly;
The common overflows of tender Women
And Children new born; Crying were too little
To shew me then most wretched; if Tears must be,
I should in justice weep 'em, and for you;
You are to live, and yet behold those Slaughters,
The dry and wither'd bones of Death would bleed at.
But sooner than I have time to think what must be,
I fear you'l find what shall be.
If you love me,
Let that word serve for all. Be gone, and leave me;
I have some little practice with my Soul,
And then the sharpest Sword is welcomest—Go,
Pray be gone. Ye have obey'd me living,
Be not for shame now stubborn—So—I thank ye—
And fare you well—A better Fortune guide ye.
Phid.
What shall we do to save our best lov'd Master?
[Aside.
Aret.
I'le to Affranius, who with half a Legion
Lies in the old Subbura, all will rise
For the brave Æcius.
Phid.
I'le to Maximus,
And lead him hither to prevent this Murther,
Or help in the Revenge, which I'le make sure of.
[Exit Phidius and Aretus.
Æcius.
I hear 'em come, who strikes first? I stay for you.
Enter Balbus, Chylax, Lycinius.
Yet will I dye a Souldier, my Sword drawn,
But against none. Why do you fear? Come forward.
Balb.
You were a Souldier Chylax.
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Yes, I muster'd,
But never saw the Enemy.
Lycin.
He's arm'd.
By Heav'n I dare not do it.
Æcius.
Why do you tremble?
I am to dye. Come ye not from Cæsar
To that end? speak.
Balb.
We do, and we must kill you.
'Tis Cæsars Will.
Chy.
I charge you put your Sword up,
That we may do it handsomly.
Æcius.
Ha, ha, ha!
My Sword up! handsomely! where were you bred?
You are the merriest Murtherers, my Masters,
I ever met withal. Come forward, Fools.
Why do you stare? Upon my Honour, Bawds,
I will not strike you.
Lycin.
I'le not be first.
Balb.
Nor I.
Chy.
You had best dye quietly. The Emperor
Sees how you bear your self.
Æcius.
I would dye, Rascals,
If you would kill me quietly.
Balb.
Plague on Proculus,
He promis'd to bring a Captain hither,
That has been us'd to kill.
Æcius.
I'le call the Guard,
Unless you kill me quickly, and proclaim
What beastly, base, cowardly Companions
The Emperor has trusted with his safety;
Nay, I'le give out you fell on my side, Villains;
Strike home you bawdy Slaves.
Chy.
He will kill us,
I markt his hand, he waits but time to reach us;
Now do you offer.
Æcius.
If you do mangle me,
And kill me not at two blows, or at three,
Or not so, stagger me, my Senses fail me,
Look to your selves.
Chy.
I told ye.
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Strike me manly,
And take a thousand stroaks.
[Enter Pontius.
Balb.
Here's Pontius.
[Licinius runs away.
Pont.
Not kill him yet?
Is this the Love you bear the Emperor?
Nay, then I see you are Traitors all; have at ye.
Chy.
Oh I am hurt.
Balb.
And I am kill'd—
[Exit Chylax and Balbus.
Pont.
Dye Bawds,
As you have liv'd and flourisht.
Æcius.
Wretched Fellow,
What hast thou done?
Pont.
Kill'd them that durst not kill,
And you are next.
Æcius.
Art thou not Pontius?
Pont.
I am the same you cast, Æcius,
And in the face of all the Camp disgrac'd.
Æcius.
Then so much nobler, as thou art a Soldier,
Shall my death be. Is it revenge provokt thee?
Or art thou hired to kill me?
Pont.
Both.
Æcius.
Then do it.
Pont.
Is that all?
Æcius.
Yes.
Pont.
Would you not live?
Æcius.
Why should I?
To thank thee for my Life?
Pont.
Yes, if I spare it.
Æcius.
Be not deceiv'd, I was not made to thank
For any Courtesie but killing me,
A fellow of thy Fortune. Do thy Duty.
Pont.
Do you not fear me?
Æcius.
No.
Pont.
Nor love me for it?
Æcius.
That's as thou dost thy Business.
Pont.
When you are dead, your Place is mine, Æcius.
Æcius.
Now I fear thee,
And not alone thee, Pontius, but the Empire.
Pont.
Why? I can govern Sir.
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I would thou coul'dst,
And first thy self: Thou canst fight well and bravely,
Thou can'st endure all Dangers, Heats, Colds, Hungers;
Heav'ns angry Flashes are not suddener,
Then I have seen thee execute, nor more mortal,
The winged feet of flying Enemies,
I have stood and seen thee mow away like Rushes,
And still kill the Killer; were thy mind
But half so sweet in Peace as rough in Dangers,
I dy'd to leave a happy Heir behind me.
Come strike and be a General—
Pont.
Prepare then,
And for I see your honour cannot lessen,
And 'twere a shame for me to strike a dead man,
Fight your short span out.
Æcius.
No. Thou know'st I must not;
I dare net give thee such advantage of me
As Disobedience.
Pont.
Dare you not defend you
Against your Enemy?
Æcius.
Not sent from Cæsar?
I have no power to make such Enemies,
For as I am condemn'd, my naked Sword
Stands but a Hatchment by me, only held
To shew I was a Souldier; had not Cæsar
Chain'd all defence in this Doom. Let him dye,
Old as I am, and quench'd with Scars and Sorrows,
Yet would I make this wither'd Arm do wonders,
And open in an Enemy such wounds,
Mercy would weep to look on.
Pont.
Then have at you,
And look upon me, and be sure you fear not,
Remember who you are, and why you live,
And what I have been to you: Cry not hold,
Nor think it base injustice I should kill thee.
Æcius.
I am prepar'd for all.
Pont.
For now Æcius,
Thou shalt behold and find I was no Traitor,
[Pontius kills himself.
And as I do it, bless me—Dye as I do—
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Thou hast deceiv'd me Pontius, and I thank thee,
By all my Hopes in Heav'n thou art a Roman.
Pont.
To shew you what you ought to do this is not;
But noble Sir, you have been jealous of me,
And held me in the Rank of dangerous persons,
And I must dying say it was but justice,
You cast me from my Credit, Yet believe me,
For there is nothing now but truth to save me,
And your forgiveness, tho' you hold me heinous
And of a troubled Spirit that like fire
Turns all to flames it meets with: You mistook me,
If I were Foe to any thing, 'twas ease,
Want of the Souldiers due.—The Enemy.
The nakedness we found at home, and scorn
Children of Peace and pleasures, no regard
Nor comfort for our Scars, nor how we got 'em;
To rusty time that eats our Bodies up,
And even began to prey upon our hours,
To Wants at home, and more than Wants, Abuses;
To them that when the Enemy invaded,
Made us their Saints, but now the Sores of Rome;
To silken Flattery, and Pride plain'd over,
Forgetting with what Wind their Fathers sail'd,
And under whose protection their soft pleasures
Grow full and numberless. To this I am Foe,
Not to the State or any point of Duty;
And let me speak but what a Souldier may,
Truly I ought to be so, yet I err'd,
Because a far more noble Sufferer,
Shew'd me the way to Patience, and I lost it;
This is the end I dye for, to live basely,
And not the follower of him that bred me,
In full account and Virtue, Pontius dares not,
Much less to out-live all that is good, and flatter.
Æcius.
I want a Name to give thy Virtue, Souldier,
For only good is far below thee, Pontius,
The Gods shall find thee one: Thou hast fashion'd Death
In such an excellent and beauteous manner,
I wonder men can live! Canst thou speak one word more?
For thy words are such Harmony, a Soul
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Pont.
A farewell,
Good noble General your hand: Forgive me,
And think whatever was displeasing to you,
Was none of mine, you cannot live.
Æcius.
I will not,
Yet one word more.
Pont.
Dye nobly, Rome farewel,
And Valentinian fall.
In joy you have given me a quiet Death,
I would strike more Wounds if I had more Breath
[Dies
Æcius.
Is there an hour of goodness beyond this?
Or any man that would outlive such Dying?
Would Cæsar double all my Honours on me,
And stick me o're with Favours like a Mistress;
Yet would I grow to this man: I have Lov'd,
But never donated on a Face till now.
Oh Death! Thou art more than Beauty, and thy Pleasures
Beyond Posterity: Come Friends and kill me.
Cæsar be kind and send a thousand Swords,
The more the greater is my fall: why stay you?
Come and I'le kiss your Weapons: fear me not;
By all the Gods I'le honour ye for killing:
Appear, or through the Court and World I'le search ye,
I'le follow ye, and ere I die proclaim ye
The Weeds of Italy; the dross of Nature,
Where are ye Villains, Traitors, Slaves—
[Exit.
| Valentinian | |