troop hemm'd in Milo being accus'd;
And now, lest age might wane his state, he casts
For civil war, wherein through use he's known
To exceed his master, that arch-traitor Sylla.
A[s] brood of barbarous tigers, having lapp'd
The blood of many a herd, whilst with their dams
They kennell'd in Hyrcania, evermore
Will rage and prey; so, Pompey, thou, having lick'd 330
Warm gore from Sylla's sword, art yet athirst:
Jaws flesh[ed] with blood continue murderous.
Speak, when shall this thy long-usurped power end?
What end of mischief? Sylla teaching thee,
At last learn, wretch, to leave thy monarchy!
What, now Sicilian[609] pirates are suppress'd,
And jaded[610] king of Pontus poison'd slain,
Must Pompey as his last foe plume on me,
Because at his command I wound not up
My conquering eagles? say I merit naught,[611] 340
Yet, for long service done, reward these men,
And so they triumph, be't with whom ye will.
Whither now shall these old bloodless souls repair?
What seats for their deserts? what store of ground
For servitors to till? what colonies
To rest their bones? say, Pompey, are these worse
Than pirates of Sicilia?[612] they had houses.
Spread, spread these flags that ten years' space have conquer'd!
Let's use our tried force: they that now thwart right,
In wars will yield to wrong:[613] the gods are with us; 350
Neither spoil nor kingdom seek we by these arms,
But Rome, at thraldom's feet, to rid from tyrants."
This spoke, none answer'd, but a murmuring buzz
Th' unstable people made: their household-gods
And love to Rome (though slaughter steel'd their hearts,
And minds were prone) restrain'd them; but war's love
And Caesar's awe dash'd all. Then Laelius,[614]
The chief centurion, crown'd with oaken leaves
For saving of a Roman citizen,
Stepp'd forth, and cried: "Chief leader of Rome's force,
So be I may be bold to speak a truth, 361
We grieve at this thy patience and delay.
What, doubt'st thou us? even now when youthful blood
Pricks forth our lively bodies, and strong arms
Can mainly throw the dart, wilt thou endure
These purple grooms, that senate's tyranny?
Is conquest got by civil war so heinous?
Well, lead us, then, to Syrtes' desert shore,
Or Scythia, or hot Li