us to your mercies recommends
His hap, his life, his hazard, and his son.
Minturnians, I will hence, and you shall fly
Occasions of those troubles you expect.
Dream not on dangers, that have sav'd my life.
Lordings, adieu: from walls to woods I wend;
To hills, dales, rocks, my wrong for to commend.
[_Exit_.

L. FAVORINUS. Fortune, vouchsafe his many woes to end.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ SYLLA[125] _in triumph in his chair triumphant of gold,
drawn by four Moors; before the chariot, his colours, his crest,
his captains, his prisoners_: ARCATHIUS, _Mithridates' son_;
ARISTION, ARCHELAUS, _bearing crowns of gold, and manacled. After
the chariot, his soldier's bands_; BASILLUS, LUCRETIUS, LUCULLUS,
_besides prisoners of divers nations and sundry disguises_.

SYLLA. You men of Rome, my fellow-mates in arms,
Whose three years' prowess, policy, and war,
One hundred threescore thousand men at arms
Hath overthrown and murder'd in the field;
Whose valours to the empire have restor'd
All Grecia, Asia, and Ionia,
With Macedonia, subject to our foe,
You see the froward customs of our state
Who, measuring not our many toils abroad,
Sit in their cells, imagining our harms:
Replenishing our Roman friends with fear.
Yea, Sylla, worthy friends, whose fortunes, toils,
And stratagems these strangers may report,
Is by false Cinna and his factious friends
Revil'd, condemn'd, and cross'd without a cause:
Yea, Romans, Marius must return to Rome,
Of purpose to upbraid your general.
But this undaunted mind that never droop'd;
This forward body, form'd to suffer toil,
Shall haste to Rome, where every foe shall rue
The rash disgrace both of myself and you.

LUCRETIUS. And may it be that those seditious brains
Imagine these presumptuous purposes?

SYLLA. And may it be? Why, man, and wilt thou doubt,
Where Sylla deigns these dangers to aver?
Sirrah, except not so, misdoubt not so:
See here Aneparius' letters, read the lines,
And say, Lucretius, that I favour thee,
That darest but suspect thy general.
[_Read the letters and deliver them_.

LUCRETIUS. The case conceal'd hath mov'd the more misdoubt;
Yet pardon my presumptions, worthy Sylla,
That to my grief have read these hideous harms.

SYLLA. Tut, my Lucretius, fortune's ball is toss'd
To form the story of my fatal power:
Rome shall repent; babe, mother,