CORNELIA. Accursed Marius, offspring of my pains, Whose furious wrath hath wrought thy country's woe, What may remain for me or mine in Rome, That see the tokens of thy tyrannies? Vile monster, robb'd of virtue, what revenge Is this, to wreak thine anger on the walls? To raze our house, to banish all our friends, To kill the rest, and captive us at last? Think'st thou by barbarous deeds to boast thy state, Or spoiling Sylla, to depress his hate? No, Marius, but for every drop of blood And inch of wrong he shall return thee two.
FLACCUS. Madam, in danger wisdom doth advise In humble terms to reconcile our foes.
MARIUS. She is a woman, Flaccus; let her talk, That breathes forth bitter words instead of blows.
CORNELIA. And in regard of that, immodest man, Thou shouldst desist from outrage and revenge.
LECTORIUS. What, can your grace endure these cursed scoffs?
MARIUS. Why, my Lectorius, I have ever learnt That ladies cannot wrong me with upbraids; Then let her talk, and my concealed hate Shall heap revengement upon Sylla's pate.
FULVIA. Let fevers first afflict thy feeble age; Let palsies make thy stubborn fingers faint; Let humours, streaming from thy moisten'd brains, With clouds of dimness choke thy fretful eyes, Before these monstrous harms assail my sire.
MARIUS. By'r lady,[140] Fulvia, you are gaily read: Your mother well may boast you for her own; For both of you have words and scoffs at will. And since I like the compass of your wit, Myself will stand, and, ladies, you shall sit. And, if you please to wade in farther words, Let's see what brawls your memories affords.
CORNELIA. Your lordship's passing mannerly in jest; But that you may perceive we smell your drift, We both will sit, and countenance your shift.
MARIUS. Where constancy and beauty do consort, There ladies' threatenings turn to merry sport. How fare these beautiful? what, well at ease?
FULVIA. As ready as at first for to displease; For, full confirm'd that we shall surely die, We wait our ends with Roman constancy.
MARIUS. Why, think you Marius hath confirm'd your death?
FULVIA. What other fruit may spring from tyrant's hands?
MARIUS. In faith then, ladies, thus the matter stands: Since you mistake my love and courtesy, Prepare yourselves, for you shall surely die.