Look out; I dreamed we were betray'd.
Car. No harm, boy;

'Tis but thy emptiness that breeds these fancies : Thou shalt have meat anon.

Hengo. A little, uncle,

[A soft dead march within.

And I shall hold out bravely.-What are those, (Look, uncle, look!) those multitudes that march there?

They come upon us stealing by.

Car. I see 'em ;

And pr'ythee be not fearful.

Hengo. Now you hate me ;

'Would I were dead!

Car. Thou knowest I love thee dearly.
Hengo, Did I e'er shrink yet, uncle? Were I a

man now

I should be angry with you.

Enter DRUSIUS, REGULUS, and Soldiers, with PENIUS's Hearse, Drums, and Colours.

Car. My sweet chicken !

See, they have reached us; and, as it seems, they bear

Some soldier's body, by their solemn gestures,
And sad solemnities; it well appears too
To be of eminence.-Most worthy soldiers,
Let me entreat your knowledge to inform me
What noble body that is, which you bear
With such a sad and ceremonious grief,
As if ye meant to woo the world and nature
To be in love with death? Most honourable
Excellent Romans, by your ancient valours,
As ye love fame, resolve me!

Sold. 'Tis the body

Of the great captain Penius, by himself

Made cold and spiritless.

Car. Oh, stay, ye Romans,

By the religion which ye owe those gods
That lead ye on to victories! by those glories
Which made even pride a virtue in ye!

Drus. Stay.

What's thy will, Caratach?

Car. Set down the body,

The body of the noblest of all Romans;
As ye expect an offering at your graves
From your friends' sorrows, set it down a-while,
That with your griefs an enemy may mingle,
(A noble enemy, that loves a soldier)

And lend a tear to virtue! Even your foes,
Your wild foes, as you called us, are yet stored
With fair affections, our hearts fresh, our spirits,
Though sometime stubborn, yet, when Virtue dies,
Soft and relenting as a virgin's prayers:

Oh, set it down!

Drus. Set down the body, soldiers.

Car. Thou hallowed relic, thou rich diamond, Cut with thine own dust; thou, for whose wide

fame

The world appears too narrow, man's all thoughts,
Had they all tongues, too, silent; thus I bow
To thy most honour'd ashes! Though an enemy,
Yet friend to all thy worths, sleep peaceably;
Happiness crown thy soul, and in thy earth'
Some laurel fix his seat, there grow and flourish,
And make thy grave an everlasting triumph!
Farewell all glorious wars, now thou art gone,
And honest arms adieu! All noble battles,
Maintain'd in thirst of honour, not of blood,
Farewell for ever!

Hengo. Was this Roman, uncle,

So good a man?

Car. Thou never knewest thy father.

Hengo. He died before I was born.
Car. This worthy Roman

Was such another piece of endless honour,
Such a brave soul dwelt in him; their proportions
And faces were not much unlike, boy.-Excellent
nature!

See how it works into his eyes!-mine own boy! Hengo. The multitudes of these men, and their fortunes,

Could never make me fear yet; one man's good

ness

Car. Oh, now thou pleasest me; weep still, my

child,

As if thou saw'st me dead! with such a flux
Or flood of sorrow, still thou pleasest me.-
And, worthy soldiers, pray receive these pledges,
These hatchments of our griefs, and grace us so

much

3

To place 'em on his hearse. Now, if ye please,
Bear off the noble burden; raise his pile
High as Olympus, making Heaven to wonder
To see a star upon earth out-shining theirs :
And ever-loved, ever-living be

Thy honour'd and most sacred memory!

Drus. Thou hast done honestly, good Caratach; And when thou diest, a thousand virtuous Romans Shall sing thy soul to Heaven.-Now march on, soldiers.

[Exeunt Romans. A dead march. Car. Now dry thine eyes, my boy. Hengo. Are they all gone?

I could have wept this hour yet.

3

Pray receive these pledges,

These hatchments of our grief, and grace us so much
To place 'em on his hearse.] The nature of the hatchments

or insignia of mourning, which Caratach is supposed to throw from the rock, does not appear from the text. A scarf from the boy, and a plume from the helmet of the hero, may be supposed.

Car. Come, take cheer,

And raise thy spirit, child; if but this day

Thou canst bear out thy faintness, the night coming

I'll fashion our escape.

Hengo. Pray fear not me;

Indeed I am very hearty.

Car. Be so still;

His mischiefs lessen, that controls his ill. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Roman Camp.

Enter PETILLIUS.

Pet. What do I ail, i' th' name of Heaven? I did but see her,

And see her die; she stinks by this time strongly, Abominably stinks. She was a woman,

A thing I never cared for; but to die so,

So confidently, bravely, strongly-Oh, the devil, I have the bots!-By Heaven, she scorned us strangely,

All we could do, or durst do; threaten'd us
With such a noble anger, and so govern'd
With such a fiery spirit-The plain bots !*
A pox upon the bots, the love-bots! Hang me,
Hang me even out o' th' way, directly hang me!
Oh, penny pipers, and most painful penners
Of bountiful new ballads, what a subject

• Bots.] A disease among horses, which makes them restive. See vol. III. p. 469.

VOL. VI.

What a sweet subject for your silver sounds,

Is crept upon ye!

Enter JUNIUS.

Jun. Here he is; have at him!

[Sings.

She set the sword unto her breast,

Great pity it was to see,

That three drops of her life-warm blood,
Run trickling down her knee."

Art thou there, bonny boy? And i'faith how dost thou?

Pet. Well, gramercy; how dost thou ?—He has found me,

Scented me out; the shame the devil owed me, He has kept his day with. And what news, Junius? Jun. It was an old tale ten thousand times told, Of a young lady was turn'd into mould,

Her life was lovely, her death it was bold.

12

5 What a sweet subject for your silver sounds.] This phrase occurs in Romeo and Juliet, and several other old plays, as also in Spenser. Perhaps the allusion in all is to a song of Edwards's, in the Paradise of Dayntie Devises, 1576 (ed. 1810. p. 55,) which was once very popular, and begins thus:

Where griping grief the heart would wound,

And dolfull dompes them oppresse;

There musick with her silver sound,
Is wont with speed to give redresse.

The expression, however, occurs already in Ulpian Tutwell's Flower of fame, 1575, 4.

6 Crept upon ye.] Sympson calls this nonsense, and reads, crept upon ME; for, says he, "Love was not crept upon them, but himself." Petillius means, "What a sweet subject is fallen in your way."-Ed. 1778.

7 This stanza, with considerable variations, occurs in several old ballads; the two last lines, for instance, in Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard,