] as is yours:
But Romans, that are still allur'd by fame,
Choose rather death than blemish of their name.
But I have haste, and therefore will reward you.
Go, soldiers, with as quick despatch as may be,
Hasten their death, and bring them to their end,
And say in this that Sylla is your friend.

ARCATHIUS. O, ransom thou our lives, sweet conqueror!

SYLLA. Fie, foolish men, why fly you happiness?
Desire you still to lead a servile life?
Dare you not buy delights with little pains?
Well, for thy father's sake, Arcathius,
I will prefer thy triumphs with the rest.
Go, take them hence, and when we meet in hell,
Then tell me, princes, if I did not well.
[_Exeunt milites_.
Lucullus, thus these mighty foes are down,
Now strive thou for the King of Pontus' crown.
I will to Rome; go thou, and with thy train
Pursue Mithridates, till he be slain.

LUCULLUS. With fortune's help: go calm thy country's woes,
Whilst I with these seek out our mighty foes.

_Enter MARIUS solus, from the Numidian mountains,
feeding on roots_.

MARIUS. Thou, that hast walk'd with troops of flocking friends,
Now wand'rest 'midst the labyrinth of woes;
Thy best repast with many sighing ends,
And none but fortune all these mischiefs knows.
Like to these stretching mountains, clad with snow,
No sunshine of content my thoughts approacheth:
High spire their tops, my hopes no height do know,
But mount so high as time their tract reproacheth.
They find their spring, where winter wrongs my mind,
They weep their brooks, I waste my cheeks with tears.
O foolish fate, too froward and unkind,
Mountains have peace, where mournful be my years.
Yet high as they my thoughts some hopes would borrow;
But when I count the evening end with sorrow.
Death in Minturnum threaten'd Marius' head,
Hunger in these Numidian mountains dwells:
Thus with prevention having mischief fled,
Old Marius finds a world of many hells,
Such as poor simple wits have oft repin'd;
But I will quell, by virtues of the mind,
Long years misspent in many luckless chances,
Thoughts full of wrath, yet little worth succeeding,
These are the means for those whom fate advances:
But I, whose wounds are fresh, my heart still bleeding,
Live to entreat this blessed boon from fate,
That I might die with grief to live in state.
Six hundred suns with solitary walks
I still have sought for to delude my pain,
And friendly echo, answering to my talks,
Rebounds th