Drus. Oh, ye poor desperate fools, no more now soldier.
Go home, and hang your arms up; let rust rot ’em;
And humble your stern valours to soft prayers!
For ye have sunk the frame of all your virtues;
The sun that warmed your bloods is set for ever.—
I’ll kiss thy honoured cheek. Farewell, great Penius,
Thou thunderbolt, farewell!—Take up the body:
To-morrow morning to the camp convey it,
There to receive due ceremonies. That eye,
That blinds himself with weeping, gets most glory.

[Exeunt, bearing out the body. A dead march.

SCENE IV.— Before the Fort of Bonduca.

Enter Suetonius, Junius, Demetrius, Curius, and Soldiers; Bonduca, two Daughters, and Nennius, on the ramparts. Drums and colours.

Suet. Bring up the catapults, and shake the wall;
We will not be out-braved thus.

Nen. Shake the earth,
Ye cannot shake our souls. Bring up your rams,
And with their armed heads make the fort totter,
Ye do but rock us into death.

[Exit.

Jun. See, sir,
See the Icenian queen in all her glory,
From the strong battlements proudly appearing,
As if she meant to give us lashes!

Dec. Yield, queen.

Bond. I am unacquainted with that language, Roman.

Suet. Yield, honour’d lady, and expect our mercy,
We love thy nobleness.

[Exit Decius.

Bond. I thank ye! ye say well;
But mercy and love are sins in Rome and hell.

Suet. You cannot ’scape our strength; you must yield, lady:
You must adore and fear the power of Rome.

Bond. If Rome be earthly, why should any knee
With bending adoration worship her?
She’s vicious; and, your partial selves confess,
Aspires, the height of all impiety;
Therefore ’tis fitter I should reverence
The thatched houses where the Britons dwell
In careless mirth; where the bless’d household gods
See nought but chaste and simple purity.
’Tis not high power that makes a place divine,
Nor that the men from gods derive their line;
But sacred thoughts, in holy bosoms stored,
Make people noble, and the place adored.

Suet. Beat the wall deeper!

Bond. Beat it to the centre,
We will not sink one thought.

Suet. I’ll make ye.

Bond. No.

Enter Petillius who whispers Suetonius.

2 Daugh. O mother, these are fearful hours; speak gently
To these fierce men, they will afford ye pity.

Bond. Pity? Thou fearful girl, ’tis for those wretches
That misery makes tame. Wouldst thou live less?
Wast not thou born a princess? Can my blood,
And thy brave father’s spirit, suffer in thee
So base a separation from thyself,
As mercy from these tyrants? Thou lovest lust sure,
And long’st to prostitute thy youth and beauty
To common slaves for bread. Say they had mercy,
The devil a relenting conscience,
The lives of