Wise!
Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate,
Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man
Speak well? We cannot fight imperial Rome,
But he and I are both Galatian-born,
And tributary sovereigns, he and I
Might teach this Rome--from knowledge of our people--
Where to lay on her tribute--heavily here
And lightly there. Might I not live for that,
And drown all poor self-passion in the sense
Of public good?
PHOEBE.
I am sure you will not marry him.
CAMMA.
Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see.
[_Shouts (from the distance_), 'Synorix! Synorix!'
CAMMA.
Synorix, Synorix! So they cried Sinnatus
Not so long since--they sicken me. The One
Who shifts his policy suffers something, must
Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many
Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie.
PHOEBE.
Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted.
CAMMA.
Their shield-borne patriot of the morning star
Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn
The clamour'd darling of their afternoon!
And that same head they would have play'd at ball with
And kick'd it featureless--they now would crown.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185