SCENE II.

_A Hall in the Palace._

_Enter_ VORTIGER _crowned, a_ GENTLEMAN _meeting him_.

GENT. My lord! VORT. I fear thy news will fetch a curse, it comes With such a violence. GENT. The people are up In arms against you. VORT. O this dream of glory! Sweet power, before I can have time to taste thee, Must I for ever lose thee?—What’s the imposthume That swells them now? GENT. The murder of Constantius. VORT. Ulcers of realms! they hated him alive, Grew weary of the minute of his reign, Call’d him an evil of their own electing; And is their ignorant zeal so fiery now, When all their thanks are cold? the mutable hearts That move in their false breasts!—Provide me safety: [_Noise within._

Hark! I hear ruin threaten me with a voice That imitates thunder.

_Enter_ SECOND GENTLEMAN.

SECOND GENT. Where’s the king? VORT. Who takes him? SECOND GENT. Send peace to all your royal thoughts, my lord: A fleet of valiant Saxons newly landed Offer the truth of all their service to you. VORT. Saxons! my wishes: let them have free entrance, And plenteous welcomes from all hearts that love us; [_Exit_ SECOND GENTLEMAN. They never could come happier.

_Re-enter_ SECOND GENTLEMAN _with_ HENGIST, HORSUS, _and Soldiers_.

HENG. Health, power, and victory to Vortiger! VORT. There can be no more pleasure to a king, If all the languages earth spake were ransack’d. Your names I know not; but so much good fortune And warranted worth lightens your fair aspècts,[407] I cannot but in arms of love enfold you. HENG. The mistress of our birth’s hope, fruitful Germany, Calls me Hengistus, and this captain Horsus; A man low-built, but yet in deeds of arms Flame is not swifter. We are all, my lord, The sons of Fortune; she has sent us forth To thrive by the red sweat of our own merits; And since, after the rage of many a tempest, Our fates have cast us upon Britain’s bounds, We offer you the first-fruits of our wounds. VORT. Which we shall dearly prize: the mean’st blood spent Shall at wealth’s fountain make its own content. HENG. You double vigour in us then, my lord: Pay is the soul of such as thrive by the sword. [_Exeunt._