  Cornelia, Cicero. Cornelia. And will ye needs bedew my dead-grown joys, And nourish sorrow with eternal tears? O eyes, and will ye ('cause I cannot dry Your ceaseless springs) not suffer me to die? Then make the blood from forth my branch-like veins, Like weeping rivers, trickle by your vaults; And sponge my body's heat of moisture so, As my displeased soul may shun my heart. Heavens, let me die, and let the Destinies Admit me passage to th' infernal lake; That my poor ghost may rest where powerful fate In death's sad kingdom hath my husband lodg'd. Fain would I die, but darksome ugly death Withholds his dart, and in disdain doth fly me, Maliciously knowing, that hell's horror Is milder than mine endless discontent; And that, if death upon my life should seize, The pain supposed would procure mine ease. But, ye sad Powers, that rule the silent deeps Of dead-sad night, where sins do mask unseen: You that amongst the darksome mansions Of pining ghosts 'twixt sighs, and sobs, and tears, Do exercise your mirthless empery: Ye gods (at whose arbitrement all stand), Dislodge my soul, and keep it with yourselves, For I am more than half your prisoner. My noble husbands (more than noble souls) Already wander under your commands. O, then shall wretched I, that am but one, (Yet once both theirs) survive, now they are gone? Alas! thou should'st, thou should'st, Cornelia, Have broke the sacred thread that tied thee here, When as thy husband Crassus (in his flower) Did first bear arms, and bare away my love. And not (as thou hast done) go break the bands, By calling Hymen once more back again. Less hapless, and more worthily thou might'st Have made thine ancestors and thee renown'd: If (like a royal dame), with faith fast kept, Thou with thy former husband's death had'st slept. But partial Fortune and the powerful Fates, That at their pleasures wield our purposes, Bewitch'd my life, and did beguile my love. Pompey, the fame that ran of thy frail honours, From my first husband stole my faithless grief. But if (as some believe) in heaven or hell Be heavenly powers or infernal spirits, That care to be aveng'd of lovers' oaths— Oaths made in marriage, and after broke; Those powers, those spirits (mov'd with my light faith), Are now displeas'd with Pompey and myself, And do with civil discord (furthering it) Untie the bands that sacred Hymen knit: Else only I am cause of both their wraths, And of the sin that sealeth up thine eyes; Thine eyes (O deplorable Pompey!)—I am she, I am that plague, that sacks thy house and thee. For 'tis not heaven, nor Crassus ('cause he sees That I am thine) in jealousy pursues us. No, 'tis a secret cross, an unknown thing, That I receiv'd from heaven at my birth, That I should heap misfortunes on their head, Whom once I had receiv'd in marriage-bed. Then ye, the noble Romulists that rest, Henceforth forbear to seek my murdering love, And let their double loss, that held me dear, Bid you beware, for fear you be beguil'd. Ye may be rich, and great in Fortune's grace, And all your hopes with hap may be effected; But if ye once be wedded to my love, Clouds of adversity will cover you. So pestilently fraught with change of plagues Like poison that (once lighting on the body) No sooner toucheth than it taints the blood; One while the heart, another while the liver (According to th' encountering passages), Nor spareth it what purely feeds the heart, More than the most infected filthiest part, Pompey, what holp it thee (say, dearest life), Tell me what holp thy warlike valiant mind T' encounter with the least of my mishaps? What holp it thee, that under thy command Thou saw'st the trembling earth with horror maz'd? Or where the sun forsakes th' ocean sea, Or watereth his coursers in the west, T' have made thy name be far more fam'd and fear'd, Than summer's thunder to the silly herd? What holp it, that thou saw'st, when thou wert young, Thy helmer deck'd with coronets of bays? So many enemies, in battle rang'd, Beat back like flies before a storm of hail? T' have look'd askance, and see so many kings To lay their crowns and sceptres at thy feet? T' embrace thy knees, and, humbled by their fate, T' attend thy mercy in this mournful state? Alas, and herewithal what holp it thee, That even in all the corners of the earth Thy wand'ring glory was so greatly known, And that Rome saw thee, while thou triumph'dst thrice O'er three parts of the world that thou had'st yok'd; That Neptune, welt'ring on the windy plains, Escap'd not free from thy victorious hands; Since thy hard hap, since thy fierce destiny, (Envious of all thine honours) gave thee me, By whom the former course of thy fair deeds Might (with a biting bridle) be restrain'd: By whom the glory of thy conquests got O hapless wife! thus ominous to all, Worse than MegÆra, worse than any plague; What foul infernal, or what stranger hell Henceforth wilt thou inhabit, where thy hap None other's hopes with mischief may entrap? Cicero. What end, O race of Scipio, will the Fates Afford your tears? Will that day never come, That your disastrous griefs shall turn to joy, And we have time to bury our annoy? Cornelia. Ne'er shall I see that day; for heaven and time Have fail'd in power to calm my passion. Nor can they (should they pity my complaints) Once ease my life, but with the pangs of death. Cicero. "The wide world's accidents are apt to change, And tickle But (like the clouds) continually doth range, Or like the sun that hath the night in chase. Then as the heavens (by whom our hopes are guided) Do coast the earth with an eternal course, We must not think a misery betided Will never cease, but still grow worse and worse. When icy winter's pass'd, then comes the spring, To whom mild autumn does earth's treasure bring— The sweetest season that the wise can choose. Heaven's influence was ne'er so constant yet, In good or bad as to continue it." When I was young, I saw against poor Sylla, Proud Cinna, Marius, and Carbo flesh'd So long, till they 'gan tyrannise the town, And spill'd such store of blood in every street, As there were none but dead men to be seen. Within a while, I saw how Fortune play'd, And wound those tyrants underneath her wheel, Who lost their lives and power at once by one, That (to revenge himself) did with his blade Commit more murder than Rome ever made. Yet Sylla, shaking tyranny aside, Return'd due honours to our commonwealth, Which peaceably retain'd her ancient state, Grown great without the strife of citizens; Till this ambitious tyrant's time, that toil'd To stoop the world and Rome to his desires. But flatt'ring chance, that train'd his first designs, Leaving our city, where so long ago Heavens did their favours lavishly bestow. Cornelia. 'Tis true, the heavens (at leastwise if they please) May give poor Rome her former liberty. But though they would, I know they cannot give A second life to Pompey that is slain. Cicero. Mourn not for Pompey; Pompey could not die A better death than for his country's weal. For oft he search'd amongst the fierce alarms, But (wishing) could not find so fair an end; Till, fraught with years and honour both at once, He gave his body (as a barricade) For Rome's defence, by tyrants overlaid. Bravely he died and (haply) takes it ill, That (envious) we repine at Heaven's will. Cornelia. Alas, my sorrow would be so much less, If he had died, his falchion in his fist: Had he amidst huge troops of armed men Been wounded by another any way, It would have calmed many of my sighs. For why t' have seen his noble Roman blood, Mix'd with his enemies', had done him good. With pike in hand upon a fort besieg'd, Defending of a breach: but basely slain; Slain traitorously, without assault in war. Yea, slain he is, and bitter chance decreed To have me there, to see this bloody deed. I saw him; I was there; and in mine arms He almost felt the poniard when he fell. Whereat my blood stopp'd in my straggling veins; Mine hair grew bristled like a thorny grove; My voice lay hid half-dead within my throat; My frightful heart (stunn'd in my stone-cold breast) Faintly redoubled ev'ry feeble stroke; My spirit, chained with impatient rage, Did raving strive to break the prison ope; Enlarg'd, to drown the pain it did abide In solitary Lethe's sleepy tide. Thrice (to absent me from this hated light) I would have plung'd my body in the sea; And thrice detain'd with doleful shrieks and cries (With arms to heaven uprear'd) I 'gan exclaim And bellow forth against the gods themselves A bead-roll Till (grief to hear, and hell for me to speak), My woes wax'd stronger, and myself grew weak. Thus day and night I toil in discontent, And sleeping wake, when sleep itself, that rides Upon the mists, scarce moisteneth mine eyes. Sorrow consumes me, and, instead of rest, With folded arms I sadly sit and weep. And, if I wink, it is for fear to see The fearful dreams'-effects that trouble me. O heavens! what shall I do? alas, must I, Must I myself be murderer of myself? Must I myself be forc'd to ope the way, Whereat my soul in wounds may sally forth? Cicero. Madam, you must not thus transpose yourself; We see your sorrow, but who sorrows not? The grief is common; and (I muse), besides The servitude that causeth all our cares, Besides the baseness wherein we are yok'd, Besides the loss of good men dead and gone, What one he is that in this broil hath been, And mourneth not for some man of his kin? Cornelia. If all the world were in the like distress, My sorrow yet would never seem the less. Cicero. "O, but men bear misfortunes with more ease, The more indifferently that they fall; And nothing more (in uproars) men can please, Than when they see their woes not worst of all." Cornelia. "Our friends' misfortune doth increase our own." Cicero. "But ours of others will not be acknown." Cornelia. "Yet one man's sorrow will another touch." Cicero. "Ay, when himself will entertain none such." Cornelia. "Another's tears draws tears from forth our eyes." Cicero. "And choice of streams the greatest river dries." Cornelia. When sand within a whirlpool lies unwet, My tears shall dry, and I my grief forget. Cicero. What boot your tears, Against th' inevitable dart of death? Think you to move with lamentable plaints Persephone or Pluto's ghastly spirits, To make him live that's locked in his tomb, And wand'reth in the centre of the earth? "No, no, Cornelia, Charon takes not pain To ferry those that must be fetch'd again." Cornelia. Proserpina indeed neglects my plaints, And hell itself is deaf to my laments. Unprofitably should I waste my tears, If over Pompey I should weep to death, With hope to have him be reviv'd by them. Weeping avails not: therefore do I weep. Great losses greatly are to be deplor'd, The loss is great, that cannot be restor'd. Cicero. "Nought is immortal underneath the sun: All things are subject to death's tyranny. Both clowns and kings one selfsame course must run, And whatsoever lives, is sure to die." Then wherefore mourn you for your husband's death, Sith, being a man, he was ordain'd to die? Since Jove's own sons, retaining human shape, No more than wretched we their death could 'scape. Brave Scipio, your famous ancestor, That Rome's high worth to Afric did extend; And those two Scipios (that in person fought Both brothers, and both war's fierce lightning fires, Are they not dead? Yes, and their death (our dearth) Hath hid them both embowell'd in the earth. And those great cities, whose foundations reach'd From deepest hell, and with their tops touch'd heaven; Whose lofty towers like thorn-y-pointed spears, Whose temples, palaces, and walls emboss'd, In power and force, and fierceness, seem'd to threat The tired world, that trembled with their weight; In one day's space (to our eternal moans) Have we not seen them turn'd to heaps of stones? Carthage can witness; and thou, Heaven's hand-work, Fair Ilium, razed by the conquering Greeks; Whose ancient beauty, worth, and weapons seem'd Sufficient t' have tam'd the Myrmidons. "But whatsoe'er hath been begun, must end. Death (haply that our willingness doth see) With brandish'd dart doth make the passage free; And timeless doth our souls to Pluto send." Cornelia. Would death had steep'd his dart in Lerna's blood! That I were drown'd in the Tartarian deeps! I am an offering fit for Acheron. A match more equal never could be made Than I and Pompey in th' Elysian shade. Cicero. "Death's always ready, and our time is known To be at Heaven's dispose, and not our own." Cornelia. Can we be over-hasty to good hap? Cicero. What good expect we in a fiery gap? Cornelia. To 'scape the fears that follow Fortune's glances. Cicero. "A noble mind doth never fear mischances." Cornelia. "A noble mind disdaineth servitude." Cicero. Can bondage true nobility exclude? Cornelia. How, if I do or suffer that I would not? Cicero. "True noblesse never doth the thing it should not." Cornelia. Then must I die. Cicero. Yet dying think this still; "No fear of death should force us to do ill." Cornelia. If death be such, why is your fear so rife? Cicero. My works will show I never fear'd my life. Cornelia. And yet you will not that (in our distress), We ask death's aid to end life's wretchedness. Cicero. "We neither ought to urge, nor ask a thing, Wherein we see so much assurance lies. But if perhaps some fierce, offended king, (To fright us) set pale death before our eyes, To force us do that goes against our heart; 'Twere more than base in us to dread his dart. But when, for fear of an ensuing ill, We seek to shorten our appointed race, Then 'tis for fear that we ourselves do kill, So fond we are to fear the world's disgrace." Cornelia. 'Tis not for frailty or faint cowardice, That men (to shun mischances) seek for death; But rather he, that seeks it, shows himself Of certain courage 'gainst uncertain chance. Is not, as are the vulgar, slightly fray'd. For heaven itself, nor hell's infectious breath, The resolute at any time have stayed. And (sooth to say) why fear we, when we see The thing we fear less than the fear to be?" Then let me die, my liberty to save; For 'tis a death to live a tyrant's slave. Cicero. Daughter, beware how you provoke the heavens, Which in our bodies (as a tower of strength) Have plac'd our souls, and fortify'd the same; As discreet princes set their garrisons In strongest places of their provinces. "Now, as it is not lawful for a man, At such a king's departure or decease, To leave the place, and falsify his faith; So, in this case, we ought not to surrender That dearer part, till heaven itself command it: For as they lent us life to do us pleasure, So look they for return of such a treasure." Chorus. "Whate'er the massy earth hath fraight, Or on her nurselike back sustains, Upon the will of Heaven doth wait, And doth no more than it ordains. Upon their motion do depend: And from the stars doth still arise Both their beginning and their end. The monarchies, that cover all This earthly round with majesty, Have both their rising and their fall From heaven and heaven's variety. Frail men, or man's more frail defence, Had never power to practise stays Of this celestial influence, That governeth and guides our days. No cloud but will be overcast; And what now flourisheth, must fade; And that that fades, revives at last, To flourish as it first was made. The forms of things do never die, Because the matter that remains Reforms another thing thereby, That still the former shape retains. The roundness of two bowls cross-cast, (So they with equal pace be aim'd), Shows their beginning by their last, Which by old nature is new-fram'd. So peopled cities, that of yore Were desert field, where none would bide, Become forsaken as before, Yet after are re-edified." Perceive we not a petty vein, Cut from a spring by chance or art, Engendereth fountains, whence again Those fountains do to floods convert? Those floods to waves, those waves to seas, That oft exceed their wonted bounds: And yet those seas (as heavens please) Return to springs by under-grounds. E'en so our city (in her prime) Prescribing princes every thing, And liveth subject to a king, And yet perhaps the sun-bright crown, That now the tyrant's head doth deck, May turn to Rome with true renown, If fortune chance but once to check. The stately walls that once were rear'd, And by a shepherd's hands erect, (With hapless brother's blood besmear'd) Shall show by whom they were infect. And once more unjust Tarquin's frown (With arrogance and rage inflam'd) Shall keep the Roman valour down, And Rome itself a while be tam'd. And chastest Lucrece once again (Because her name dishonour'd stood) Shall by herself be careless slain, And make a riv er of her blood; Scorning her soul a seat should build Within a body basely seen, By shameless rape to be defil'd, That erst was clear as heaven's queen. But, heavens, as tyranny shall yoke Our bastard hearts with servile thrall; So grant your plagues (which they provoke) May light upon them once for all. And let another Brutus rise, Bravely to fight in Rome's defence, To free our town from tyranny, And tyranny's "Pricking goss and thorns."—S. "My noble husbands (more than noble souls) Already wander under your commands."—S. P. The word also occurs in "Henry V.," act i. sc. 2— "Or there we'll sit, Ruling, in large and ample empery." "This word," says Mr Steevens, "which signifies dominion, is now obsolete, though formerly in general use." So in "Claudius Tiberius Nero," 1607— "Within the circuit of our empery." "Yet climbing up, the tree of tickle trust Wee streache the arme, as farre as reach may goe, Disguis'd with pompe, and pampred up with lust; We gase alof, and never looke belowe, Till hatchet comes, and gives the fauling bloe." See also Mr Steevens's note on "Measure for Measure," act i. sc. 3. |
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