 | The Tragedie of Bonduca |  |
Scæna prima.
Enter Bonduca, Daughters, Hengo, Nennius, Souldiers.Bon.
The hardy Romanes? O ye gods of Britain,
the rust of Arms, the blushing shame of souldiers;
are these the men that conquer by inheritance?
the Fortune-makers? these the Julians,
Enter Caratach.
that with the Sun measure the end of Nature,
making the world but one Rome and one Cæsar?
Shame, how they flee! Cæsars soft soul dwells in 'em;
their mothers got 'em sleeping, pleasure nurst 'em,
their bodies sweat with sweet oils, loves allurements,
not lustie Arms. Dare they send these to seek us,
these Romane Girls? Is Britain grown so wanton?
Twice we have beat 'em, Nennius, scatter'd 'em,
and through their big-bon'd Germans, on whose Pikes
the honour of their actions sit in triumph,
made Themes for songs to shame 'em, and a woman,
a woman beat 'em, Nennius; a weak woman,
a woman beat these Romanes.
Car.
So it seems.
A man would shame to talk so.
Bon.
Who's that?
Car.
I.
Bon.
Cousin, do you grieve my fortunes?
Car.
No, Bonduca,
if I grieve, 't is the bearing of your fortunes;
you put too much winde to your sail: Discretion
and hardie Valour are the twins of Honour,
and nurs'd together, make a Conquerour:
divided, but a talker. 'T is a truth,
that Rome has fled before us twice, and routed;
a truth we ought to crown the gods for, Lady,
and not our tongues. A truth is none of ours,
nor in our ends, more then the noble bearing:
for then it leaves to be a vertue, Lady;
and we that have been Victors, beat our selves,
when we insult upon our honours subject.
Bon.
My valiant Cousin, is it foul to say
what liberty and honour bid us do,
and what the gods allow us?
Car.
No, Bonduca,
so what we say, exceed not what we do.
Ye call the Romanes fearful, fleeing Romanes,
and Romane Girls, the lees of tainted pleasures:
does this become a doer? are they such?
Bon.
They are no more.
Car.
Where is your Conquest then?
why are your Altars crown'd with wreathes of flowers,
the beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire?
the holy Druides composing songs
of everlasting life to Victory?
Why are these triumphs, Lady? for a May-game?
for hunting a poor herd of wretched Romanes?
is it no more? shut up your Temples, Britains.
and let the Husband-man redeem his heifers;
put out our holy fires; no Timbrel ring;
let's home, and sleep; for such great overthrows,
a Candle burns too bright a sacrifice,
a Glow-worms tail too full a flame. O Nennius,
thou hadst a noble Uncle knew a Romane,
and how to speak him, how to give him weight
in both his fortunes.
Bon.
By—I think
ye doat upon these Romanes, Caratach.
Car.
Witnesse these wounds, I do; they were fairly given.
I love an enemy: I was born a souldier;
and he that in the head on 's Troop desies me,
bending my manly body with his sword,
I make a Mistris. Yellow-tressed Hymen
ne'er ty'd a longing Virgin with more joy,
48
and are not all these Romane? Ten struck Battels
I suckt these honour'd scars from, and all Romane:
ten yeers of bitter nights and heavie marches,
when many a frozen storm sung thorow my Curasse,
and made it doubtful whether that or I
were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought thorow,
and all to try these Romanes. Ten times a night
I have swom the Rivers, when the stars of Rome
shot at me as I floated, and the billows
tumbled their watry ruines on my shoulders,
charging my batter'd sides with troops of Agues;
and still to try these Romanes, whom I found
(and if I lye, my wounds be henceforth backward,
and be you witnesse, gods, and all my dangers)
as ready, and as full of that I brought
(which was not fear nor flight) as valiant,
as vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer,
ever advanced as forward as the Britains,
their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours,
I, and as subtil, Lady. 'T is dishonour,
and, follow'd, will be impudence, Bonduca,
and grow to no belief, to taint these Romance.
Have not I seen the Britains—
Bond.
What?
Car.
Dishearted,
run, run, Bonduca, not the quick rack swifter;
the virgin from the hated ravisher
not half so fearful? not a flight drawn home,
a round stone from a Sling, a lovers wish
ere made that haste that they have. By—
I have seen these Britains, that you magnifie,
run as they would have out-run time, and roaring
basely for mercy, roaring: the light shadows,
that in a thought scur ore the fields of Corn,
halted on crutches to 'em.
Bon.
O ye Powers,
what scandals do I suffer?
Car.
Yes, Bonduca,
I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius;
yea, run apace, both; then when Penyus
the Romane Girl cut thorow your armed Carts,
and drive 'em headlong on ye down the hill;
then when he hunted ye, like Britain-Foxes,
more by the sent then sight: then did I see
these valiant and approved men of Britain,
like boading Owls, creep into tods of Ivie,
and hoot their fears to one another nightly.
Nen.
And what did you then, Caratach?
Car.
I fled too,
but not so fast; your Jewel had been lost then,
young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius:
for when your fears out-run him, then stept I,
and in the head of all the Romane fury
took him, and with my tough Belt to my back
I buckled him; behinde him, my sure Shield;
and then I follow'd. If I say I fought
five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,
I lye not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard
me speak this, or ever seen the childe more,
but that the son of vertue, Penyus,
seeing me steer thorow all these storms of danger,
my helm still in my hand, my sword my prow,
turn'd to my so my face, he cri'd out nobly,
Go, Britain, bear thy Lions whelp off safely;
thy manly sword has ransom'd thee: grow strong,
and let me meet thee once again in arms;
then if thou stand'st, thou art mine. I took his offer,
and here I am to honour him.
Bon.
O Cousin,
from what a flight of honour hast thou checkt me?
what wouldst thou make me, Caratach?
Car.
See, Lady,
the noble use of others in our losses;
does this afflict ye? Had the Romanes cri'd this,
and as we have done theirs, sung out these fortunes,
rail'd on our base condition, hooted at us,
made marks as far as the earth was ours, to shew us
nothing but sea could stop our flights; despis'd us,
and held it equal whether banquetting
or beating of the Britains were more businesse,
it would have gall'd ye.
Bon.
Let me think we conquer'd.
Car.
Do; but so think, as we may be conquer'd:
and where we have found vertue, though in those
that came to make us slaves, let's cherish it.
There's not a blowe we gave since Julius landed,
that was of strength and worth, but like Records
they file to after-ages. Our Registers,
the Romanes, are for noble deeds of honour;
and shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings?
Bon.
No more, I see my self: thou hast made me, Cousin,
more then my fortunes durst; for they abus'd me,
and wound me up so high, I swell'd with glory:
thy temperance has cur'd that Tympany,
and given me health again, nay, more discretion.
Shall we have peace? for now I love these Romanes.
Car.
Thy love and hate are both unwise ones, Lady.
Bon.
Your reason?
Nen.
Is not Peace the end of Arms?
Car.
Not where the cause implies a general Conquest:
had we a difference with some pettie Isle,
or with our neighbours (Lady) for our Land marks,
the taking in of some rebellious Lord,
or making a head against Commotions,
after a day of Blood, Peace might be argued:
But where we grapple for the ground we live on,
the Libertie we hold as dear as life,
the gods we worship, and next those, our Honours,
and with those swords that know no end of Battel:
those men beside themselves allow no neighbour;
those mindes that where the day is claim inheritance,
and where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest,
and where they march, but measure out more ground
to adde to Rome, and here i'th' bowels on us;
it must not be; no, as they are our foes,
and those that must be so until we tire 'em,
let's use the peace of Honour, that's fair dealing,
but in our ends, our swords. That hardy Romane
that hopes to graft himself into my stock,
must first begin his kinred under ground,
and be alli'd in ashes.
Bon.
Caratach,
as thou hast nobly spoken, shall be done;
and Hengo to thy charge I here deliver:
the Romanes shall have worthy Wars.
Car.
They shall.
And, little Sir, when your young bones grow stiffer,
and when I see ye able in a morning
to beat a dozen boys, and then to breakfast,
I'll tye ye to a sword.
Heng.
And what then, Uncle?
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Then ye must kill, Sir, the next valiant Romane
that calls ye knave.
Hengo.
And must I kill but one?
Car.
An hundred, boy, I hope.
Hengo.
I hope five hundred.
Car.
That's a noble boy. Come, worthy Lady,
let's to our several charges, and henceforth
allow an enemy both weight and worth.
Exeunt.
| The Tragedie of Bonduca | |