University of Virginia Library

Actus primus.

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,
then I am married to that man that wounds me:
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?

Car.
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.

Scæna Secunda.

Enter Junius and Perillius, two Romano Captains.
Petill.
What ailst thou, man? dost thou want meat?

Jun.
No.

Petill.
Clothes?

Jun.
Neither. For heavens love, leave me.

Petill.
Drink?

Jun.
Ye tire me.

Petill.
Come, 't is drink; I know 't is drink.

Jun.
'T is no drink.

Petill.
I say 't is drink: for what affliction
can light so heavie on a Souldier,
to dry him up as thou art, but no drink?
Thou shalt have drink.

Jun.
Prethee, Petillius—

Petill.
And by mine honour, much drink, valiant drink:
never tell me, thou shalt have drink. I see,
like a true friend, into thy wants: 'tis drink;
and when I leave thee to a desolation,
especially of that dry nature, hang me.

Jun.
Why do you do this to me?

Petill.
For I see.
although your modestie would fain conceal it,
which sits as sweetly on a Souldier,
as an old side-saddle.

Jun.
What do you see?

Petill.
I see as far as day, that thou want'st drink.
Did I not finde thee gaping like an Oyster
for a new tide? thy very thoughts lie bare
like a lowe ebbe? thy soul that rid in Sack,
lies moor'd for want of liquor? Do but see
into thy self; for by—I do:
for all thy body's chapt, and crackt like timber
for want of moisture: what thou wantst there, Junius,
and if it be not drink.

Jun.
You have too much on't.

Petill.
It may be a whore too; say it be: come, meecher,
thou shalt have both: a pretty valiant fellow,
die for a little lap and lechery?
no, it shall ne'er be said in our Countrey,
thou dy'dst o'th' Chin-cough. Heare, thou noble Romane,
the son of her that loves a Souldier,
hear what I promised for thee; thus I said,
Lady, I take thy son to my companion,
Lady, I love thy son, thy son loves war,
the war loves danger, danger drink, drink discipline,
which is society and lechery;
these two beget Commanders: fear not, Lady,
thy son shall lead.

Jun.
'T is a strange thing, Petillius,
that so ridiculous and loose a mirth
can master your affections.

Petill.
Any mirth,
and any way, of any subject, Junius,
is better then unmanly mustinesse:
what harm's in drink, in a good wholesom wench?
I do beseech ye, Sir, what errour? yet
it cannot out of my head handsomly,
but thou wouldst fain be drunk: come, no more fooling,
the General has new wine, new come over.

Jun.
He must have new acquaintance for it too,
for I will none, I thank ye.

Pet.
None, I thank ye?
a short and touchie answer. None I thank ye:
ye do not scorn it, do ye?

Jun.
Gods defend Sir;
I owe him still more honour.

Pet.
None, I thank ye:
no company, no drink, no wench, I thank ye.
Ye shall be worse intreated, Sir.

Jun.
Petillius,
as thou art honest, leave me.

Petill.
None, I thank ye;
a modest and a decent resolution,
and well put on. Yes; I will leave ye, Junius,
and leave ye to the boys, that very shortly
shall all salute ye, by your new sirname
of Junius none I thank ye. I would starve now,
hang, drown, despair, deserve the forks, lie open
to all the dangerous passes of a wench,
bound to believe her tears, and wed her aches,
ere I would own thy follies. I have found ye,
your lays, and out-leaps Junius, haunts, and lodges:
I have view'd ye, and I have found ye by my skill
to be a fool o'th' first head, Junius,
and I will hunt ye: ye are in love, I know it:
ye are an asse, and all the Camp shall know
a peevish idle boy; your dame shall know it;
a wronger of my care; your self shall know it.

Enter Corporal Judas, and four souldiers.
Iud.
A Bean? a princely diet, and full banquet,
to what we compasse.

1 Sould.
Fight like hogs for Acorns?

2 Sould.
Venture our lives for pig-nuts?

Petill.
What ail these Rascals?

3 Sould.
If this hold, we are starv'd.

Iud.
For my part, friends,
which is but twenty Beans a day, a hard world
for Officers, and men of action;
and those so clipt by master mouse, and rotten:
for understand 'em French Beans, where the fruits
are ripen'd like the people, in old tubs.
For mine own part, I say, I am starv'd already,
not worth another Bean, consum'd to nothing,
nothing but flesh and bones left, miserable:
now if this mustie provender can prick me
to honourable matters of atchievement, Gentlemen,
why there's the point.

4 Sould.
I'll fight no more.

Petill.
You'll hang then,
a soveraign help for hunger. Ye eating Rascals,
whose gods are Beef and Brewis, whose brave angers
do execution upon these, and Chibbals:
ye dogs heads i'th' porridge pot; you fight no more?
does Rome depend upon your resolution
for eating mouldy pie-crust?

3 Sould.
Would we had it.

Iud.
I may do service, Captain.

Petill.
In a Fish-market.
You, Corporal Curry-comb, what will your fighting
profit the Common-wealth? do you hope to triumph,
or dare your vamping valour, good man Cobler,
clap a new soal to th'Kingdom? s'death, ye dog-whelps
you, fight, or not fight.

Jud.
Captain.

Petill.
Out, ye flesh-flyes,
nothing but noyce and nastinesse.

Jud.
Give us meat,
whereby we may do.

Petill.
Whereby hangs your valor?

Jud.
Good bits afford good blows.

Petill.
A good position:
how long is't since thou eat'st last? wipe thy mouth,
and then tell truth.

Jud.
I have not eat to th'purpose—

Petill.
To th'purpose? what's that? half a Cow, and Garlick?
ye Rogues, my Company eat Turf, and talk not;
timber they can digest, and fight upon't;
old matts, and mud with spoons, rare meats. Your shoes, slaves,
dare ye cry out of hunger, and those extant?
suck your Sword-hilts, ye slaves, if ye be valiant;
honour will make 'em march-pain: to the purpose?
a grievous penance. Dost thou see that Gentleman,
that melancholy Monsieur?

Jun.
Pray ye, Petillius.

Pet.
He has not eat these three weeks.

2 Sould.
'has drunk the more then.

3 Sould.
And that's all one.

Petill.
Nor drunk nor slept these two months.

Jud.
Captain, We do beseech you as poor Souldiers,
men that have seen good days, whose mortal stomacks
may somtime feel afflictions.

Jun.
This, Petillius,
is not so nobly done.

Petill.
'T is common profit;
urge him to th'point, he 'll finde you out a food
that needs no teeth nor stomack; a strange formity
will feed ye up as fat as hens i'th' foreheads,
and make ye fight like Fichocks, to him.

Jud.
Captain.

Jun.
Do you long to have your throats cut?

Petill.
See what metal
it makes in him: two meals more of this melancholy,
and there lies Caratach.

Jud.
We do beseech ye.

2 Sould.
Humbly beseech your valour.

Jun.
Am I onely
become your sport, Petillius?

Jud.
But to render
in way of general good, in preservation.

Jun.
Out of my thoughts, ye slaves.

4 Sould.
Or rather pitie.

3 Sould
Your warlike remedy against the maw-worms.

Jud.
Or notable receipt to live by nothing.

Petill.
Out with your Table-books.

Jun.
Is this true friendship?
and must my killing griefs make others May-games?
Stand from my swords point, slaves; your poor starv'd spirits
can make me no oblations; else, O love,
thou proudly blind destruction, I would send thee
whole Hecatombs of hearts, to bleed my sorrows.

Jud.
Alas, he lives by love, Sir,

Exit Junius.
Petill.
So he does, Sir,
and cannot you do so too? All my Company
are now in love, ne'er think of meat, nor talk
of what Provant is: aymees, and hearty hey-hoes,
are Sallets fit for Souldiers. Live by meat,
by larding up your bodies? 't is lewd, and lazie,
and shews ye meerly mortal, dull, and drives ye
to fight like Camels, with baskets at your noses.
Get ye in love; ye can whore well enough,
that all the world knows: fast ye into Famine,
yet ye can crawl like Crabs to wenches, handsomly.
Fall but in love now, as ye see example,
and follow it but with all your thoughts, probatum,
there's so much charge sav'd, and your hungers ended.
Away, I hear the General: get ye in love all,
Drum afar off.
Up to the ears in love, that I may hear
no more of these rude murmurings; and discreetly
carry your stomacks, or I prophesie
a pickel'd rope will choke ye. Jog, and talk not.

Exeunt.
Enter Swetonius, Demetrius, Decius, Drum, Colours.
Swet.
Demetrius, is the messenger dispatch'd
to Penyus, to command him to bring up
the Volans Regiment?

Dem.
He's there by this time.

Swet.
And are the horse well view'd we brought from Mona?

Dec.
The Troops are full, and lusty.

Swet.
Good Petillius,
look to those eating Rogues, that bawl for victuals,
and stop their throats a day or two: provision
waits but the winde to reach us.

Petill.
Sir, already
I have been tampring with their stomacks, which I finde
as deaf as Adders to delays: your clemency
hath made their murmurs, mutinies, nay, rebellions:
now, and they want but Mustard, they're in uproars:
no oil but Candy, Lucitanian figs,
and wine from Lestos, now can satisfie 'em:
the British waters are grown dull and muddy,
the fruit disgustful: Orontes must be sought for,
and Apples from the happie Isles: the truth is,
they are more curious now in having nothing,
then if the sea and land turn'd up their treasures:
this lost the Colonies, and gave Bonduca
(with shame we must record it) time and strength
to look into our Fortunes; great discretion
to follow offered Victory; and last, full pride
to brave us to our teeth, and scorn our ruines.

Swet.
Nay, chide not, good Petillius, I confesse
my will to conquer Mona, and long stay
to execute that will, let in these losses:
all shall be right again, and as a pine
rent from Oeta by a sweeping tempest,
joynted again, and made a Mast, defies
those angry windes that split him: so will I,
piec'd to my never-failing strength and fortune,
steer thorow these swelling dangers, plow their prides up,
and bear like thunder through their loudest tempests:
they keep the field still.

Dem.
Confident and full.

Petill.
In such a number, one would swear they grew,
the hills are wooded with their partizans,
and all the valleys over-grown with darts,
as moors are with rank rushes: no ground left us
to charge upon, no room to strike: say fortune
and our endeavours bring us in to 'em,
they are so infinite, so ever-springing,
we shall be kill'd with killing; of desperate women,
that neither fear, or shame ere found, the devill
has rankt amongst 'em multitudes: say the men fail.
they 'll poison us with their petticoats: say they fail,
they have priests enough to pray us into nothing.

Swet.
These are imaginations, dreams of nothings,
the man that doubts or fears.

Dec.
I am free of both.

Dem.
The self-same I.

Petill.
And I as free as any;
as carelesse of my flesh, of that we call life,
so I may lose it nobly; as indifferent
as if it were my diet. Yet, noble General,
it was a wisedom learn'd from you; I learn'd it,
and worthy of a Souldiers care, most worthy,
to weigh with most deliberate circumstance
the ends of accidents; above their offers;
how to go on and get, to save a Romane,
whose one life is more worth in way of doing,
then millions of these painted wasps; how viewing
to finde advantage out; how, found, to follow it
with counsel and discretion, lest meer fortune
should claim the victory.

Swet.
'T is true, Petillius,
and worthily remembred: the rule's certain,
their uses no lesse excellent: but where time
cuts off occasions, danger, time and all
tend to a present peril, 't is required
our Swords and Manhoods be best counsellors,
our expeditions, presidents. To win, is nothing,
where reason, time and counsel are our, Camp-masters:
but there to bear the field, then to be conquerours,
where pale destruction takes us, takes us beaten,
in wants, and mutinies, our selves but handfuls,
and to our selves our own fears, needs a new way,
a sudden and a desperate execution:
here, how to save, is losse; to be wise, dangerous;
onely a present well-united strength,
and mindes made up for all attempts, dispatch it:
disputing and delay here, cools the courage;
necessity gives time for doubts; things infinite,
according to the spirit they are preach'd to,
rewards like them; and names for after-ages,
must steel the Souldier; his own shame help to arm him;
and having forc'd his spirit, ere he cools,
fling him upon his enemies; sudden and swift,
like Tygers amongst Foxes, we must fight for't:
Fury must be our Fortune; shame we have lost,
spurs ever in our sides to prick us forward:
there is no other wisedom nor discretion
due to this day of ruine, but destruction;
the Souldiers order first, and then his anger.

Dem.
No doubt they dare redeem all.

Swet.
Then no doubt
the day must needs be ours. That the proud woman
is infinite in number, better likes me,
then if we dealt with squadrons: half her Army
shall choke themselves, their own swords dig their graves.
I'll tell ye all my fears, one single valour,
the vertues of the valiant Caratach
more doubts me then all Britain: he's a Souldier
so forg'd out, and so temper'd for great fortunes,
so much man thrust into him, so old in dangers,
so fortunate in all attempts, that his meer name
fights in a thousand men, himself in millions,
to make him Romane. But no more. Petillius,
how stands your charge?

Petill.
Ready for all employments,
to be commanded too, Sir.

Swet.
'T is well govern'd;
to morrow we'll draw out, and view the Cohorts:
i'th' mean time, all apply their Offices.
Where's Junius?

Petill.
In 's Cabbin,
sick o'th' mumps, Sir.

Swet.
How?

Petill.
In love, indeed in love, most lamentably loving,
to the tune of Queen Dido.

Dec.
Alas poor Gentleman.

Swet.
'T will make him fight the nobler. With what Lady?
I'll be a spokesman for him.

Petill.
You'll scant speed, Sir.

Swet.
Who is't?

Petill.
The devils dam, Bonduca's daughter,
her youngest, crackt i'th' ring.

Swet.
I am sorry for him:
but sure his own discretion will reclaim him,
he must deserve our anger else. Good Captains,
apply your selves in all the pleasing forms
ye can, unto the Souldiers; fire their spirits,
and set 'em fit to run this action;
mine own provision shall be shar'd amongst 'em,
till more come in: tell 'em, if now they conquer,
the fat of all the kingdom lies before 'em,
their shames forgot, their honours infinite,
and want for ever banisht. Two days hence,
our fortunes, and our swords, and gods be for us.

Exeunt.