Cur. Peace guide him up to Heaven!

Jun. Away, good Macer.

[Exeunt Macer and Judas.

Enter Suetonius, Drusius, Regulus, and Petillius.

Suet. If thou be’st guilty,
Some sullen plague, thou hat’st most, light upon thee!
The regiment return on Junius;
He well deserves it.

Pet. So!

Suet. Draw out three companies,
(Yours, Decius, Junius, and thou, Petillius),
And make up instantly to Caratach;
He’s in the wood before ye: We shall follow,
After due ceremony done to th’ dead,
The noble dead. Come, let’s go burn the body.

[Exeunt all but Petillius.

Pet. The regiment given from me? disgraced openly?
In love too with a trifle to abuse me?
A merry world, a fine world! served seven years
To be an ass o’ both sides? sweet Petillius,
You have brought your hogs to a fine market! You are wise, sir,
Your honourable brain-pan full of crotchets,
An understanding gentleman; your projects
Cast with assurance ever! Wouldst not thou now
Be bang’d about the pate, Petillius?
Answer to that, sweet soldier! surely, surely,
I think you would; pull’d by the nose, kick’d? Hang
thee,
Thou art the arrant’st rascal! Trust thy wisdom
With anything of weight? the wind with feathers!
Out, you blind puppy! you command? you govern?
Dig for a groat a-day, or serve a swine herd,
Too noble for thy nature too!—I must up;
But what I shall do there, let time discover.

[Exit.

SCENE III.— The mountainous Country, with the Rock in the Back-ground.

Enter Macer and Judas, with meat and a bottle.

Macer. Hang it o’ th’ side o’ th’ rock, as though the Britons
Stole hither to relieve him: Who first ventures
To fetch it off is ours. I cannot see him.

Judas. He lies close in a hole above, I know it,
Gnawing upon his anger.—Ha! no; ’tis not he.

Macer. ’Tis but the shaking of the boughs.

Judas. Pox shake ’em!
I am sure they shake me soundly.—There!

Macer. ’Tis nothing.

Judas. Make no noise; if he stir, a deadly tempest
Of huge stones falls upon us. ’Tis done! away, close!

[Exeunt.

CARATACH appears on the rock.

Car. Sleep still, sleep sweetly, child; ’tis all thou feed’st on!
No gentle Briton near, no valiant charity,
To bring thee food? Poor knave, thou art sick, extreme sick,
Almost grown wild for meat; and yet thy goodness
Will not confess, nor show it. All the woods
Are double lined with soldiers; no way left us
To make a noble