  Messenger, Cornelia, Chorus. Messenger. Unhappy man! amongst so many wracks As I have suffer'd both by land and sea, That scornful destiny denies my death! Oft have I seen the ends of mightier men, Whose coats of steel base death hath stol'n into; And in this direful war before mine eyes Beheld their corses scatter'd on the plains, And endless numbers falling by my side; Nor those ignoble, but the noblest lords. 'Mongst whom above the rest (that moves me most) Scipio (my dearest master) is deceas'd; And death, that sees the noblest Full-gorged triumphs, and disdains my life. Cornelia. We are undone. Chorus. Scipio hath lost the day; But hope the best, and hearken to his news. Cornelia. O cruel fortune! Messenger. These misfortunes yet Must I report to sad Cornelia; Whose ceaseless grief (which I am sorry for) Will aggravate my former misery. [Aside. Cornelia. Wretch that I am, why leave I not the world? Or wherefore am I not already dead? O world! O wretch! Chorus. Is this th' undaunted heart, That is required in extremities? Be more confirmed. And, madam, let not grief Abuse your wisdom like a vulgar wit. Haply the news is better than the noise; Let's hear him speak. Cornelia. O no, for all is lost! Farewell, dear father. Chorus. He is sav'd perhaps. Messenger. Methinks I hear my master's daughter speak. What sighs, what sobs, what plaints, what passions Have we endur'd, Cornelia, for your sake? Cornelia. Where is thine emperor? Messenger. Where our Captains are. Where are our legions? where our men at arms? Or where so many of our Roman souls? The earth, the sea, the vultures, and the crows, Lions and bears, are their best sepulchres. Cornelia. O miserable! Chorus. Now I see the heavens Are heap'd with rage and horror 'gainst this house. Cornelia. O earth! why opest thou not? Chorus. Why wail you so? Assure yourself that Scipio bravely died; And such a death excels a servile life. Say, messenger; the manner of his end Will haply comfort this your discontent. Cornelia. Discourse the manner of his hard mishap, And what disastrous accident did break So many people, bent so much to fight. Messenger. CÆsar, that wisely knew his soldiers' hearts, And their desire to be approv'd in arms, Sought nothing more than to encounter us. And therefore, (faintly skirmishing) in craft Lamely they fought, to draw us further on. Oft (to provoke our wary, well-taught troops) He would attempt the entrance on our bars: Nay, even our trenches, to our great disgrace, And call our soldiers cowards to their face. But when he saw his wiles nor bitter words Could draw our captains to endanger us, Coasting along and following by the foot, He thought to tire and weary us fro' thence; And got his willing hosts to march by night With heavy armour on their hard'ned backs, Down to the sea-side, where before fair Thapsus, He made his pioneers, poor weary souls, The selfsame day to dig and cast new trenches, And plant strong barricades; where he encamp'd, Scipio no sooner heard of his designs, But, being afraid to lose so fit a place, March'd on the sudden to the selfsame city; Where few men might do much, which made him see Of what importance such a town would be. The fields are spread, and as a household-camp Of creeping emmets in a country-farm, That come to forage when the cold begins, Leaving their crannies to go search about, Cover the earth so thick, as scarce we tread, But we shall see a thousand of them dead. Even so our battles, scatter'd on the sand, Did scour the plains in pursuit of the foe. One while at Thapsus we begin t' entrench, To ease our army, if it should retire; Another while we softly sally forth; And wakeful CÆsar that doth watch our being, (When he perceives us marching o'er the plain) Doth leap for gladness; and (to murder vow'd) Runs to the tent, for fear we should be gone, And quickly claps his rusty armour on. For true it is, that CÆsar brought at first An host of men to Afric, meanly arm'd; But such as had brave spirits, and (combating) Had pow'r and wit to make a wretch a king. Well, forth to field they marched all at once, Except some few that stay'd to guard the trench. Them CÆsar soon and subtly sets in rank, And every regiment, warned with a word Bravely to fight for honour of the day. He shows that ancient soldiers need not fear Them that they had so oft disordered: Them that already dream'd of death or flight; That (tir'd) would ne'er hold out, if once they see, That they o'erlaid them in the first assault. Meanwhile our emperor, at all points arm'd, Whose silver hairs and honourable front Were (warlike) lock'd within a plumed casque, In one hand held his targe of steel emboss'd, And in the other grasp'd his coutelace, And with a cheerful look survey'd the camp; And to endure whate'er betided them. For now, quoth he, is come that happy day, Wherein our country shall approve our love. Brave Romans, know this is the day and hour, That we must all live free, or friendly die: For my part, being an ancient senator, An emperor and consul, I disdain The world should see me to become a slave. I'll either conquer, or this sword you see (Which brightly shone) shall make an end of me. We fight not, we, like thieves, for others' wealth: We fight not, we, t' enlarge our scant confines: To purchase fame to our posterities, By stuffing of our trophies in their houses. But 'tis for public freedom that we fight, For Rome we fight, and those that fled for fear. Nay more, we fight for safety of our lives, Our goods, our honours, and our ancient laws. As for the empire and the Roman state (Due to the victor), thereon ruminate: Think how this day the honourable dames, With blubber'd eyes and hands to heaven uprear'd, Sit invocating for us to the gods, That they will bless our holy purposes. Methinks I see poor Rome in horror clad, And aged senators, in sad discourse, Mourn for our sorrows and their servitude. Methinks I see them while lamenting thus, Their hearts and eyes lie hovering over us. On then, brave men, my fellows and Rome's friends, To show us worthy of our ancestors: And let us fight with courage, and conceit That we may rest the masters of the field; May perish in the press before our faces; And that his troops (as touch'd with lightning flames) May by our horse in heaps be overthrown, And he (blood-thirsting) wallow in his own. This said: his army crying all at once, With joyful tokens did applaud his speech; Whose swift, shrill noise did pierce into the clouds, Like northern winds that beat the horned Alps. The clatt'ring armour, buskling as they pac'd, Rong through the forests with a frightful noise, And every echo took the trumpet's clang. When (like a tempest rais'd with whirlwind's rage) They ran at ever-each Wherewith the dust, as with a darksome cloud, Arose, and over-shadow'd horse and man. The darts and arrows on their armour glanc'd, And with their fall the trembling earth was shaken. The air (that thick'ned with their thund'ring cries) With pale, wan clouds discoloured the sun. The fire in sparks fro' forth their armour flew, And with a duskish yellow chok'd the heavens. The battles lock'd (with bristle-pointed spears) Do at the half-pike freely charge each other, And dash together like two lusty bulls, That (jealous of some heifer in the herd) Run head to head, and (sullen) will not yield, Till, dead or fled, the one forsake the field. The shiver'd lances (rattling in the air) Fly forth as thick as motes about the sun: When with their swords (flesh'd with the former fight) They hew their armour, and they cleave their casques, Till streams of blood like rivers fill the downs; Surcloys the ground, and of a champion-land Makes it a quagmire, where (knee-deep) they stand. Bloodthirsty Discord, with her snaky hair— A fearful hag with her fire-darting eyes, Runs 'cross the squadrons with a smoky brand, And with her murd'ring whip encourageth The over-forward hands to blood and death. Bellona, fired with a quenchless rage, Runs up and down, and in the thickest throng Cuts, casts the ground, and madding makes a pool, Which in her rage free passage doth afford, That with our blood she may anoint her sword. Now we of our side urge them to retreat, And now before them we retire as fast, As on the Alps the sharp north-northeast Shaking a pine-tree with her greatest power, One while the top doth almost touch the earth, And then it riseth with a counterbuff. So did the armies press and charge each other, With selfsame courage, worth, and weapons too; And, prodigal of life for liberty, With burning hate let each at other fly. Thrice did the cornets of the soldiers (clear'd) Turn to the standard to be new-supplied; And thrice recomforted, they bravely ran, And fought as freshly as they first began. Like two fierce lions fighting in a desert, To win the love of some fair lioness, When they have vomited their long-grown rage, And prov'd each other's force sufficient, Passant regardant Their jawbones dy'd with foaming froth and blood; Their lungs like sponges ramm'd within their sides; Their tongues discover'd, and their tails long-trailing; Till jealous rage (engendered with rest) Returns them sharper-set than at the first; And makes them couple, when they see their prize, With bristled backs and fire-sparkling eyes, Till tir'd or conquer'd, one submits or flies. CÆsar, Both comfort and encourage his to fight, March'd through the battle, laying still about him, And subtly mark'd whose hand was happiest; Who nicely did but dip his spear in blood, And who more roughly smear'd it to his fist; Who staggering fell with every feeble wound, And who more strongly pac'd it through the thick'st; Him he inflam'd and spurr'd, and fill'd with horror. Doth breathe new heat within Orestes' breast, Till outward rage with inward grief begins A fresh remembrance of our former sins. For then (as if provok'd with pricking goads) Their warlike armies (fast lock'd foot to foot) Stooping their heads low-bent to toss their staves, They fiercely opened both battalions, Cleave, break, and raging tempest-like o'erturn Whate'er makes head to meet them in this humour. Our men-at-arms (in brief) begin to fly, And neither prayers, entreaty, nor example Had power to stay them in this strange career; Straggling, as in the fair Calabrian fields, When wolves, for hunger ranging fro' the wood, Make forth amongst the flock, that scattered flies Before the shepherd, that resistless lies. Cornelia. O cruel fortune! Messenger. None resisting now, The field was filled with all confusion, Of murder, death, and direful massacres. The feeble bands, that yet were left entire, Had more desire to sleep than seek for spoil. No place was free from sorrow; everywhere Lay armed men, o'ertrodden with their horses; Dismember'd bodies drowning in their blood, And wretched heaps lie mourning of their maims, Whose blood, as from a sponge, or bunch of grapes Crush'd in a wine-press, gusheth out so fast, As with the sight doth make the sound aghast. Some should you see that had their heads half-cloven, And on the earth their brains lie trembling. Here one new-wounded helps another dying. Here lay an arm, and there a leg lay shiver'd. Here horse and man (o'erturned) for mercy cried, With hands extended to the merciless, That stopp'd their ears, and would not hear a word, He that had hap to 'scape, doth help afresh To reinforce the side whereon he serv'd. But seeing that there the murd'ring enemy, Pesle-mesle They 'gan retire, where Juba was encamp'd; But there had CÆsar eftsoons tyrannis'd: So that, despairing to defend themselves, They laid aside their armour, and at last Offer'd to yield unto the enemy; Whose stony heart, that ne'er did Roman good, Would melt with nothing but their dearest blood. And Scipio thy father, when he beheld His people so discomfited and scorn'd: When he perceived the labour profitless, To seek by new-encouraging his men To come upon them with a fresh alarm: And when he saw the enemies pursuit, To beat them down as fierce as thund'ring flints, And lay them level with the charged earth, Like ears of corn with rage of windy show'rs, Their battles scatter'd and their ensigns taken; And (to conclude) his men dismay'd to see The passage chok'd with bodies of the dead, (Incessantly lamenting th' extreme loss And suspirable death of so brave soldiers) He spurs his horse, and (breaking through the press) Trots to the haven, where his ships he finds, And (hopeless) trusteth to the trustless winds. To raise new forces, and return to field; But as one mischief draws another on, A sudden tempest takes him by the way, And casts him up near to the coasts of Hippon, Where th' adverse navy, sent to scour the seas, Did hourly keep their ordinary course; Where seeing himself at anchor slightly shipp'd: Besieg'd, betray'd by wind, by land, by sea (All raging-mad to rig his better vessels, The little while this naval conflict lasted), Behold, his own was fiercely set upon, Which being sore beaten, till it brake again, Ended the lives of his best fighting-men. There did the remnant of our Roman nobles, Before the foe and in their captain's presence, Die bravely with their falchions in their fists. When Scipio, that saw his ships through-gall'd, And by the foe fulfill'd with fire and blood: His people put to sword: sea, earth, and hell, And heaven itself conjur'd to injure him— Steps to the poop, and with a princely visage Looking upon his weapon dy'd with blood, Sighing he sets it to his breast, and said: Since all our hopes are by the gods beguil'd, What refuge now remains for my distress, But thee, my dearest ne'er-deceiving sword? Yea, thee, my latest fortune's firmest hope, That, being freeborn, I shall not die a slave! Scarce had he said, but, cruelly resolv'd, He drench'd it to the pommel through his sides, That fro' the wound the smoky blood ran bubbling. Wherewith he stagger'd; and I stepp'd to him To have embrac'd him: but he, being afraid T' attend the mercy of his murd'ring foe, That still pursued him, and oppress'd his ships, Crawl'd to the deck, and, life with death to ease, Headlong he threw himself into the seas. Cornelia. O cruel gods! O heaven! O direful fates! O radiant sun, that slightly gild'st our days! O night-stars, full of infelicities! O triple-titled Hecate, queen and goddess, Bereave my life, or living strangle me! Confound me quick, or let me sink to hell! Thrust me fro' forth the world, that 'mongst the spirits Th' infernal lakes may ring with my laments! O miserable, desolate, distressful wretch, Worn in mishaps, yet in mishaps abounding! What shall I do, or whither shall I fly, To venge this outrage, or revenge my wrongs? Come, wrathful furies, with your ebon locks, And feed yourselves with mine enflamed blood! Ixion's torment, Sisyph's rolling stone, And th' eagle tiring Be my eternal tasks; that th' extreme fire Within my heart may from my heart retire. I suffer more, more sorrows I endure, That unprovoked deal'st so partially. Say, fretful heavens, what fault have I committed, Or wherein could mine innocence offend you, When (being but young) I lost my first love, Crassus? Or wherein did I merit so much wrong, To see my second husband, Pompey, slain? But 'mongst the rest, what horrible offence, What hateful thing, unthought of, have I done, That, in the midst of this my mournful state, Nought but my father's death could expiate? Thy death, dear Scipio, Rome's eternal loss, Whose hopeful life preserv'd our happiness; Whose silver hairs encouraged the weak; Whose resolutions did confirm the rest: Whose end, sith it hath ended all my joys, O heavens, at least permit of all these plagues That I may finish the catastrophe; Sith in this widowhood of all my hopes I cannot look for further happiness. For, both my husbands and my father gone, What have I else to wreak your wrath upon? Now as for happy thee, to whom sweet death Hath given blessed rest for life's bereaving; O envious Julia, in thy jealous heart Venge not thy wrong upon Cornelia. But, sacred ghost, appease thine ire, and see My hard mishap in marrying after thee. O, see mine anguish! haply seeing it, 'Twill move compassion in thee of my pains, And urge thee, if thy heart be not of flint, Or drunk with rigour, to repent thyself, That thou enflam'dst so cruel a revenge In CÆsar's heart upon so slight a cause; And mad'st him raise so many mournful tombs, Because thy husband did revive the lights Of thy forsaken bed; unworthily 'Gainst his mishap, as it my help had been, Or as if second marriage were a sin. Was never city, where calamity Hath sojourn'd with such sorrow as in this? Was never state, wherein the people stood So careless of their conquer'd liberty, And careful of another's tyranny? O gods, that erst of Carthage took some care, Which by our fathers pitiless was spoil'd; When thwarting destiny at Afric walls Did topside-turvey turn their commonwealth; When forceful weapons fiercely took away Their soldiers, sent to nourish up those wars; When (fir'd) their golden palaces fell down; When through the slaughter th' Afric seas were dy'd, And sacred temples quenchlessly enflam'd. Now is our hapless time of hopes expir'd. Then satisfy yourself with this revenge, Content to count the ghosts of those great captains, Which (conquer'd) perish'd by the Roman swords. The Hannos, the Hamilcars, Hasdrubals, Especially that proudest Hannibal, That made the fair Thrasymene so desert: For even those fields that mourn'd to bear their bodies, Now (loaden) groan to feel the Roman corses. Their earth we purple o'er, and on their tombs We heap our bodies, equalling their ruin. And as a Scipio did reverse their power, They have a Scipio to revenge them on. Weep therefore, Roman dames, and from henceforth Vailing your crystal eyes to your fair bosoms, Rain showers of grief upon your roselike cheeks, And dew yourselves with spring-tides of your tears. Thicken the passage of the purest clouds, And press the air with your continual plaints. Beat at your ivory breasts, and let your robes (Defac'd and rent) be witness of your sorrows. And let your hair, that wont be wreath'd in tresses. Now hang neglectly, dangling down your shoulders, Careless of art or rich accoutrements, That with the gold and pearl we us'd before Our mournful habits may be deck'd no more. Alas! what shall I do? O dear companions, Shall I, O, shall I live in these laments? Widow'd of all my hopes, my haps, my husbands, And last, not least, bereft of my best father; And of the joys mine ancestors enjoy'd, When they enjoy'd their lives and liberty? And must I live to see great Pompey's house, A house of honour and antiquity, Usurp'd in wrong by lawless Antony? Shall I behold the sumptuous ornaments, Which both the world and fortune heap'd on him, Adorn and grace his graceless enemy? Or see the wealth that Pompey gain'd in war, Sold at a pike, Die, rather, die, Cornelia; and to spare Thy worthless life, that yet must one day perish. Let not these captains vainly lie interr'd, Or CÆsar triumph in thine infamy, That wert the wife to th' one, and th' other's daughter. But if I die, before I have entomb'd My drowned father in some sepulchre, Shall his poor wand'ring limbs lie still tormented, Toss'd with the salt waves of the wasteful seas? No, lovely father and my dearest husband, Cornelia must live (though life she hateth) To make your tombs, and mourn upon your hearses; Where, languishing, my famous faithful tears May trickling bathe your generous sweet cinders; And afterward, both wanting strength and moisture, Fulfilling with my latest sighs and gasps The happy vessels that enclose your bones, I will surrender my surcharged life; And, when my soul earth's prison shall forego, Increase the number of the ghosts below. Non prosunt Domino, quÆ prosunt omnibus, artes. THO. KYD.
FOOTNOTES:"And while our ore-toyl'd foe Snores on his unlac'd cask, all faint, though proud; Through his successful fight." And ibid. act ii. sc. 2—"Enter Massinissa in his gorget and shirt, shield, sword, his arme transfixt with a dart; Jugurth followes with his cures and caske." "Hic CÆsar, rabies populi, stimulusque furorum, Ne qua parte sui pereat scelus, agmina circum It vagus, atque ignes animis flagrantibus addit. Inspicit et gladios, qui toti sanguine manent, Qui niteant primo tantum mucrone cruenti, QuÆ presso tremat ense manus," &c.—Steevens. "We gave the signe of battaile: shouts are rais'd That shook the heavens: Pell-mell our armies joyn Horse, targets, pikes, all against each opposed." So in Ben Jonson's "Poetaster," act iv. sc. 3— "What, and be tir'd on by yond' vulture?" In "The Honest Man's Fortune," by Beaumont and Fletcher, [edit. Dyce, iii. 383]— "Ye dregs of baseness, vultures amongst men, That tire upon the hearts of generous spirits." And in Dekker's "Match me in London"— "The vulture tires Upon the eagle's heart." |
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