  Cornelia, Chorus. [Cornelia.] The cheerful cock (the sad night's comforter) Waiting upon the rising of the sun, Doth sing to see how Cynthia shrinks her horn, While Clytia takes her progress to the east; Where, wringing wet with drops of silver dew, Her wonted tears of love she doth renew. The wand'ring swallow, with her broken song, The country-wench unto her work awakes; While Cytherea sighing walks to seek Her murder'd love transform'd into a rose; Whom (though she see) to crop she kindly fears; But (kissing) sighs, and dews him with her tears; Sweet tears of love, remembrancers to time, Time past with me, that am to tears converted; Whose mournful passions dull the morning's joys, Whose sweeter sleeps are turn'd to fearful dreams; And whose first fortunes (fill'd with all distress) Afford no hope of future happiness. But what disastrous or hard accident Hath bath'd your blubber'd eyes in bitter tears, That thus consort me in my misery? Why do you beat your breasts? Why mourn you so? Say, gentle sisters, tell me, and believe It grieves me that I know not why you grieve. Chorus. O poor Cornelia, have not we good cause, For former wrongs to furnish us with tears? Cornelia. O, but I fear that Fortune seeks new flaws, And still (unsatisfied) more hatred bears. Chorus. Wherein can Fortune farther injure us, Now we have lost our conquer'd liberty, Our commonwealth, our empire, and our honours, Under this cruel Tarquin's tyranny? Under this outrage now are all our goods, Where scattered they run by land and sea (Like exil'd us) from fertile Italy, To proudest Spain or poorest Getuly. Cornelia. And will the heavens, that have so oft defended Our Roman wars from fury of fierce kings, Not once again return our senators, That from the Libyc plains and Spanish fields With fearless hearts do guard our Roman hopes? Will they not once again encourage them To fill our fields with blood of enemies, And bring from Afric to our Capitol, Upon their helms the empire that is stole? Then, home-born household gods, and ye good spirits, To whom in doubtful things we seek access, By whom our family hath been adorn'd, And graced with the name of African; Do ye vouchsafe that this victorious title Be not expired in Cornelia's blood? And that my father now (in th' Afric wars) The selfsame style by conquest may continue! But, wretched that I am, alas, I fear— Chorus. What fear you, madam? Cornelius. That the frowning heavens Oppose themselves against us in their wrath. Chorus. Our loss (I hope) hath satisfied their ire. Cornelia. O no, our loss lifts CÆsar's fortunes high'r. Chorus. Fortune is fickle. Cornelia. But hath fail'd him never. Chorus. The more unlike she should continue ever. Cornelia. My fearful dreams do my despairs redouble. Chorus. Why suffer your vain dreams your head to trouble? Cornelia. Who is not troubled with strange visions? Chorus.—that of our spirit are but illusions. Cornelia. God grant these dreams to good effect be brought! Chorus. We dream by night, what we by day have thought. Cornelia. The silent night, that long had sojourned, Now 'gan to cast her sable mantle off, And now the sleepy wain-man softly drove His slow-pac'd team, that long had travelled; When (like a slumber, if you term it so) 'Gan close the windows of my watchful eyes, Already tir'd and loaden with my tears; And lo (methought) came gliding by my bed The ghost of Pompey with a ghastly look; All pale and brawn-fall'n, Amongst the conquering Romans, as we us'd, When he (enthronis'd) at his feet beheld Great emperors, fast-bound in chains of brass. But all amaz'd, with fearful hollow eyes, His hair and beard deform'd with blood and sweat, Casting a thin coarse linsel o'er his shoulders, That torn in pieces trail'd upon the ground, And, gnashing of his teeth, unlock'd his jaws Which, slightly cover'd with a scarce-seen skin, This solemn tale he sadly did begin: Sleep'st thou, Cornelia? sleep'st thou, gentle wife, And seest thy father's misery and mine? Wake, dearest sweet, and o'er our sepulchres In pity show thy latest love to us. Such hap as ours attendeth on my sons, The selfsame foe and fortune following them. Send Sextus over to some foreign nation, Far from the common hazard of the wars; That (being yet sav'd) he may attempt no more To 'venge the valour that is tried before. He said; and suddenly a trembling horror, A chill cold shivering (settled in my veins) Brake up my slumber; when I oped my lips Three times to cry, but could nor cry nor speak. I mov'd mine head, and flung abroad mine arms Beguiled mine embracements, and (unkind) Left me embracing nothing but the wind. O valiant soul, when shall this soul of mine Come visit thee in the Elysian shades? O dearest life, or when shall sweetest death Dissolve the fatal trouble of my days, And bless me with my Pompey's company? But may my father (O extreme mishap!) And such a number of brave regiments, Made of so many expert soldiers, That lov'd our liberty, and follow'd him, Be so discomfited? O, would it were but an illusion! Chorus. Madam, never fear. Nor let a senseless idol of the night Increase a more than needful fear in you. Cornelia. My fear proceeds not of an idle dream, For 'tis a truth that hath astonish'd me. I saw great Pompey, and I heard him speak; And, thinking to embrace him, op'd mine arms, When drowsy sleep, that wak'd me at unwares, Did with his flight unclose my fearful eyes So suddenly, that yet methinks I see him. Howbeit I cannot touch him, for he slides More swiftly from me than the ocean glides. Chorus. "These are vain thoughts or melancholy shows, That wont to haunt and trace by cloister'd tombs: Which eaths To pensive minds, deceived with their shadows; They counterfeit the dead in voice and figure, Divining of our future miseries. For when our soul the body hath disgag'd, It seeks the common passage of the dead, Down by the fearful gates of Acheron; Where, when it is by Æacus adjudg'd, It either turneth to the Stygian lake, Or stays for ever in th' Elysian fields, And ne'er returneth to the corse interr'd, To walk by night, or make the wise afraid. None but inevitable conquering death For ghosts of men are lock'd in fiery gates, Fast-guarded by a fell remorseless monster, And therefore think not it was Pompey's sprite, But some false demon that beguil'd your sight." [Exit.
Cicero. Then, O world's queen! O town that did extend Thy conquering arms beyond the ocean, Down to the Scythian swift-foot fearless porters, Thou art embas'd; Thy proud neck to a miserable yoke. Rome, thou art tam'd, and th' earth, dew'd with thy blood, Doth laugh to see how thou art signioris'd. The force of heaven exceeds thy former strength: For thou, that wont'st to tame and conquer all, Art conquer'd now with an eternal fall. Now shalt thou march, thy hands fast-bound behind thee, Thy head hung down, thy cheeks with tears besprent, With crowned front triumphing follows thee. Thy bravest captains, whose courageous hearts (Joined with the right) did reinforce our hopes, Now murder'd lie for fowl to feed upon. Petreus, Cato, and Scipio, are slain, And Juba, that amongst the Moors did reign. Now you, whom both the gods and fortune's grace Hath sav'd from danger in these furious broils, Forbear to tempt the enemy again, For fear you feel a third calamity. CÆsar is like a brightly-flaming blaze, That fiercely burns a house already fir'd; And, ceaseless launching out on every side, Consumes the more, the more you seek to quench it, Still darting sparkles, till it find a train To seize upon, and then it flames amain. The men, the ships, wherewith poor Rome affronts All powerless give proud CÆsar's wrath free passage, Nought can resist him; all the power we raise, 'Tis thou, O Rome, that nurs'd his insolence; 'Tis thou, O Rome, that gav'st him first the sword, Which murd'rer-like against thyself he draws, And violates both God and Nature's laws. Like moral Æsop's misled country swain, That found a serpent pining in the snow, And full of foolish pity took it up, And kindly laid it by his household fire, Till (waxen warm) it nimbly 'gan to stir, And stung to death the fool that foster'd her. O gods! that once had care of these our walls, And fearless kept us from th' assault of foes: Great Jupiter, to whom our Capitol So many oxen yearly sacrific'd; Minerva, Stator, and stout Thracian Mars, Father to good Quirinus our first founder; To what intent have ye preserv'd our town, Against the Samnites, Sabines, and fierce Latins? Why, from once footing in our fortresses Have ye repell'd the lusty warlike Gauls? Why from Molossus and false Hannibal Have ye reserv'd the noble Romulists? Or why from Cat'line's lewd conspiracies Preserv'd ye Rome by my prevention? To cast so soon a state, so long defended, Into the bondage where (enthrall'd) we pine? To serve (no stranger, but amongst us) one That with blind frenzy buildeth up his throne? But if in us be any vigour resting, If yet our hearts retain one drop of blood, CÆsar, thou shalt not vaunt thy conquest long, Nor longer hold us in this servitude. Nor shalt thou bathe thee longer in our blood: For I divine, that thou must vomit it, Like to a cur that carrion hath devour'd, And cannot rest, until his maw be scour'd. Think'st thou to signiorise, or be the king Of such a number nobler than thyself? Or think'st thou Romans bear such bastard hearts. To let thy tyranny be unreveng'd? No; for methinks I see the shame, the grief, The rage, the hatred that they have conceived, And many a Roman sword already drawn, T' enlarge the liberty that thou usurp'st, And thy dismember'd body (stabb'd and torn), Dragg'd through the streets, disdained to be borne. [Exit.
Philip. Amongst the rest of mine extreme mishaps, I find my fortune not the least in this, That I have kept my master company, Both in his life and at his latest hour: Pompey the great, whom I have honoured With true devotion both alive and dead. The murd'ring Egyptians bereave his life; And when the man that had affright the earth, Did homage to it with his dearest blood; O'er whom I shed full many a bitter tear, And did perform his exequies with sighs: And on the strand upon the river-side (Where to my sighs the water seem'd to turn), I wove a coffin for his corse of segs, That with the wind did wave like bannerets, And laid his body to be burn'd thereon; Which, when it was consum'd, I kindly took, And sadly clos'd within an earthen urn The ashy relics of his hapless bones; Which having 'scap'd the rage of wind and sea, I bring to fair Cornelia to inter Within his elders' tomb, that honour'd her. Cornelia. Ah me! what see I? Philip. Pompey's tender bones, Which (in extremes) an earthen urn containeth. Cornelia. O sweet, dear, deplorable cinders? O miserable woman, living—dying! O poor Cornelia! born to be distress'd, Why liv'st thou toil'd, that (dead) might'st lie at rest? O faithless hands, that under cloak of love Did entertain him, to torment him so! O barbarous, inhumane, hateful traitors! This your disloyal dealing hath defam'd Your king and his inhospitable seat Of the extremest and most odious crime, That 'gainst the heavens might be imagined. For ye have basely broke the law of arms, And outrag'd over an afflicted soul; Murder'd a man that did submit himself, And injur'd him that ever us'd you kindly. With battle, famine, and perpetual plagues! Let aspics, serpents, snakes, and Libyan bears, Tigers and lions, breed with you for ever! And let fair Nilus (wont to nurse your corn) Cover your land with toads and crocodiles, That may infect, devour, and murder you! Else earth make way, and hell receive them quick— A hateful race, 'mongst whom there doth abide All treason, luxury, and homicide. Philip. Cease these laments. Cornelia. I do but what I ought To mourn his death. Philip. Alas! that profits nought. Cornelia. Will Heaven let treason be unpunished? Philip. Heavens will perform what they have promised. Cornelia. I fear the heavens will not hear our prayer. Philip. The plaints of men oppress'd do pierce the air. Cornelia. Yet CÆsar liveth still. Philip. "Due punishment Succeeds not always after an offence: For oftentimes 'tis for our chastisement, That Heaven doth with wicked men dispense, That, when they list, they may with usury For all misdeeds pay home the penalty." Cornelia. This is the hope that feeds my hapless days, Else had my life been long ago expired. I trust the gods, that see our hourly wrongs, Will fire his shameful body with their flames; Except some man (resolved) shall conclude With CÆsar's death to end our servitude. Else (God to-fore) myself may live to see His tired corse lie toiling in his blood: Gor'd with a thousand stabs, and round about The wronged people leap for inward joy. Then, Lethe, open thine infernal lake! I'll down with joy: because, before I died, Mine eyes have seen what I in heart desir'd. Pompey may not revive, and (Pompey dead) Let me but see the murd'rer murdered. Philip. CÆsar bewail'd his death. Cornelia. His death he mourned, Whom while he liv'd, to live like him he scorn'd. Philip. He punished his murd'rers. Cornelia. Who murder'd him, But he that followed Pompey with the sword? He murder'd Pompey that pursued his death, And cast the plot to catch him in the trap. He that of his departure took the spoil, Whose fell ambition (founded first in blood) By nought but Pompey's life could be withstood. Philip. Photin and false Achillas he beheaded. Cornelia. That was because that, Pompey being their friend, They had determined once of CÆsar's end. Philip. What got he by his death? Cornelia. Supremacy. Philip. Yet CÆsar speaks of Pompey honourably. Cornelia. Words are but wind, nor meant he what he spoke. Philip. He will not let his statues Cornelia. By which disguise (whate'er he doth pretend) His own from being broke he doth defend: And by the trains, wherewith he us allures, His own estate more firmly he assures. Philip. He took no pleasure in his death, you see. Cornelia. Because himself of life did not bereave him. Philip. Nay, he was mov'd with former amity. Cornelia. He never trusted him but to deceive him. But, had he lov'd him with a love unfeign'd, Yet had it been a vain and trustless league: "For there is nothing in the soul of man So firmly grounded, as can qualify Th' inextinguishable thirst of signiory. Not Heaven's fear, nor country's sacred love, Not ancient laws, nor nuptial chaste desire: Respect of blood, or (that which most should move) The inward zeal that nature doth require: All these, nor anything we can devise, Can stop the heart resolv'd to tyrannise." Philip. I fear your griefs increase with this discourse. Cornelia. My griefs are such, as hardly can be worse. Philip. "Time calmeth all things." Cornelia. No time qualifies My doleful spirit's endless miseries. My grief is like a rock, whence ceaseless strain Fresh springs of water at my weeping eyes, Still fed by thoughts, like floods with winter's rain: For when, to ease th' oppression of my heart, I breathe an autumn forth of fiery sighs, Yet herewithal my passion neither dies, Nor dries the heat the moisture of mine eyes. Philip. Can nothing then recure these endless tears? Cornelia. Yes, news of CÆsar's death that med'cine bears. Philip. Madam, beware; for, should he hear of this, Cornelia. I neither stand in fear of him nor his. Philip. 'Tis policy to fear a powerful hate. Cornelia. What can he do? Philip. Madam, what cannot men, That have the power to do what pleaseth them? Cornelia. He can do me no mischief that I dread. Philip. Yes, cause your death. Cornelia. Thrice happy, were I dead. Philip. With rigorous torments. Cornelia. Let him torture me, Pull me in pieces, famish, fire me up, Fling me alive into a lion's den: There is no death so hard torments me so, As his extreme triumphing in our woe. But if he will torment me, let him then Deprive me wholly of the hope of death; For I had died before the fall of Rome, And slept with Pompey in the peaceful deeps, Save that I live in hope to see, ere long, That CÆsar's death shall satisfy his wrong. [Exeunt. Chorus. Fortune in power imperious Us'd o'er the world and worldlings thus To tyrannise: When she hath heap'd her gifts on us, Away she flies. Are more inconstant in their kind Than autumn's blasts: A woman's shape, a woman's mind, That seldom lasts. One while she bends her angry brow, And of no labour will allow: Another while She fleers again, I know not how, Still to beguile. Fickle in our adversities, And fickle when our fortunes rise, She scoffs at us: That (blind herself) can blear our eyes, To trust her thus. The sun that lends the earth his light, Beheld her never over-night Lie calmly down, But, in the morning following, might Perceive her frown. She hath not only power and will T' abuse the vulgar wanting skill; But when she list, To kings and clowns doth equal ill Without resist. Mischance, that every man abhors, And cares for crowned emperors She doth reserve, As for the poorest labourers That work or starve: The merchant, that for private gain Doth send his ships to pass the main, Upon the shore, In hope he shall his wish obtain, Doth thee adore. Upon the sea or on the land, Where health or wealth, or vines do stand, Thou canst do much, And often help'st the helpless band: Thy power is such. And many times (disposed to jest) 'Gainst one whose power and cause is best (Thy power to try): To him that ne'er put spear in rest Giv'st victory. For so the Libyan monarchy, That with Ausonian blood did dye Our warlike field, To one that ne'er got victory Was urg'd to yield. So noble Marius, Arpin's friend, That did the Latin state defend From Cymbrian rage, Did prove thy fury in the end, Which nought could 'suage. And Pompey, whose days haply led, So long thou seem'dst t' have favoured In vain, 'tis said, When the Pharsalian field he led, Implor'd thine aid. Now CÆsar, swoll'n with honour's heat, Sits signiorising in her seat, And will not see, That Fortune can her hopes defeat, Whate'er they be. From chance is nothing franchised; And till the time that they are dead, Is no man blest; He only, that no death doth dread, Doth live at rest. [Exit. FOOTNOTES:It will be seen by the following quotation from Webster's "Appius and Virginia," 4to, 1654, that brawn-fall'n is something different from what Reed has described it— "Let Th' enemies stript arm have his crimson'd brawns Up to the elbowes in your traitorous blood."—Page 9. "When the sun sets, shadows, that show'd at noon But small, appear most long and terrible; So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads. Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds, Owls, ravens, crickets seem the watch of death, Nature's worst vermin scare her god-like sons. Echoes, the very leavings of a voice, Grow babling ghosts, and call us to our graves: Each molehill thought swells to a huge Olympus, While we fantastick dreamers heave and puff, And sweat with an imagination's weight; As if, like Atlas, with these mortal shoulders We could sustain the burden of the world." "Uneath may she endure the flinty streets."—S. Again, in Spenser's "Fairy Queen," B. iv. c. 12. § 1— "For much more eath to tell the starres on hy, Albe they endlesse seeme in estimation." S. P. [Dr Pegge] would read booters; but he ought to have known that the Scythians were contemptuously styled porters, because they carried their huts and families about with them in wains; omnia sua secum portantes. So Lucan, lib. ii. v. 641— "Pigra palus Scythici patiens MÆotica plaustri." Again, Horace, "Carm.," lib. iii. Od. 24— "Campestres melius Scythoe, Quorum plaustra vagas rite trahunt domos." After all, what could booters mean? Unless S. P. designed to characterise the Scythians, as Homer does his countrymen, ??????de? ??a???, the well-booted Greeks. [II. a. 17.] Free-booters, indeed, is used for plunderers; but I know not that booters is ever employed, unless in conjunction with some epithet that fixes its meaning.—S. "Thus reconcilement was between them knitt, Through goodly temp'rance and affection chaste; And either vow'd with all their power and witt, To let not other's honour be defaste, Of friend or foe, who ever it embaste." "Would'st thou be windowed in great Rome, and see Thy master thus with pleach'd arms bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat Of fortunate CÆsar drawn before him branded His baseness that ensued?" "Let's then dismiss the legate with a frown; And draw our forces toward the sea, to join With the four kings of Kent, and so affront His first arrival." And in "Hamlet," act iii. sc. 1— "That he, as 'twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia." See Mr Steevens's note on the last passage. |
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