in the throne,
I'll see if she dare frown, when state is gone.
Lo, senators, the man that sat aloft,
Now deigns to give inferiors highest place.
Lo, here the man whom Rome repined oft,
A private man content to brook disgrace.
Romans, lo, here the axes, rods, and all:
I'll master fortune, lest she make me thrall.
Now whoso list accuse me, tell my wrongs,
Upbraid me in the presence of this state.
Is none these jolly citizens among,
That will accuse, or say I am ingrate?
Then will I say, and boldly boast my chances,
That nought may force the man whom fate advances.

FLACCUS. What meaneth Sylla in this sullen mood,
To leave his titles on the sudden thus?

SYLLA. Consul, I mean with calm and quiet mind
To pass my days, till[163] happy death I find.

POMPEY. What greater wrong than leave thy country so?

SYLLA. Both it and life must Sylla leave in time.

CITIZEN. Yet during life have care of Rome and us.

SYLLA. O wanton world, that flatter'st in thy prime,
And breathest balm and poison mixed in one!
See how these wavering Romans wish'd my reign,
That whilom fought and sought to have me slain. [_Aside_.]
My countrymen, this city wants no store
Of fathers, warriors, to supply my room;
So grant me peace, and I will die for Rome.

_Enter two Burglars to them_, POPPEY _and_ CURTALL.

CURTALL. These are very indiscreet counsels, neighbour Poppey,
and I will follow your misadvisement.

POPPEY. I tell you, goodman Curtall, the wench hath wrong. O vain
world, O foolish men! Could a man in nature cast a wench down, and
disdain in nature to lift her up again? Could he take away her
dishonesty without bouncing up the banns of matrimony? O learned
poet, well didst thou write fustian verse.

_These maids are daws
That go to the laws,
And a babe in the belly_.

CURTALL. Tut, man, 'tis the way the world must follow, for

_Maids must be kind,
Good husbands to find_.

POPPEY. But mark the fierse[164],

_If they swell before,
It will grieve them sore_.

But see, yond's Master Sylla: faith, a pretty fellow is a.

SYLLA. What seek my countrymen? what would my friends?

CURTALL. Nay, sir, your kind words shall not serve the turn: why, think
you to thrust your soldiers into our kindred with your courtesies, sir?

POPPEY. I tell you, Master Sylla, my neighbour will have the law: he had
the right, he will have the wrong; for therein dwells the law.

CONSUL. What desire these men of