CORNELIA

Never shall I see that day, for Heaven and Time, Have failed in power to calm my passion. Nor can they (should they pity my complaints) Once ease my life, but with the pangs of death. T'is true, the Heavens (at leastwise if they please) May give poor Room her former liberty. But (though they would,) I know they cannot give A second life to Pompey, that is slain. Alas, my sorrow would be so much less, If he had died (his fauchin in his fist.) Had he amid huge troops of Armed men Been wounded, by another any way, It would have calmed many of my sighs. For why, to-have seen his noble Roman blood Mixed with his enemies, had done him good. But he is dead, (Oh heavens) not dead in fight, With pike in hand upon a Fort besieged 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 poignard when he fell. Whereat, my blood stopped in my straggling veins, Mine hair grew bristled, Like a thorny grove: My voice lay hid, half dead within my throat. My frightful heart (stunned in my stone-cold breast) Faintly redoubled every feeble stroke. My spirit (chained with impatient rage,) Did raving strive to break the prison open, (Enlarged,) to drown the pain it did abide, Insolitary Lethes sleepy tied. Thrice (to absent me from this hateful light,) I would have plund'd my body in the Sea. And thrice detained, with doleful shrieks and cries, (With arms to heaven vprea'd) I gan exclaim And bellow forth against the Gods themselves, A bedroll of outrageous blasphemies. Till (grief to hear, and hell for me to speak,) My woes waxed stronger, and my self grew weak. Thus day and night I toil in discontent, And sleeping wake, when sleep it self that rides Upon the mysts, scarce moysteneth mine eyes. Sorrow consumes me, and in steed 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. Oh heavens, what shall I do? alas must I, Must I my self, be murderer of my self? Must I my self be forced to open the way, Whereat my soul in wounds may sally forth? If all the world were in the Like distress, My sorrow yet would never seem the less. "Our friends misfortune doth increase our own. "Yet one men sorrow will another touch. "Another's tears, draw tears from forth our eyes. When sand within a Whirlpool lies unwet, My tears shall dry, and I my grief forget. Proserpina indeed neglects my plaints, And hell it self 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 revived by them. Weeping avails not, therefore do I weep. Great losses, greatly are to be depror'd, The lose is great that cannot be restored. Would Death had steeped his date in Lerna-s blood, That I were drowned in the Tartarean deeps. I am and offering fit for Acheron. A match more equal never could be made, Then I, and Pompey, in th'Elisian shade. Can we be overhasty to good hap? To escape the fears that follows Fortune's glances. "A noble mind disdains servitude. How if I do, or suffer that I would not? Then must I die. If death be such, why is your fear so rife? And yet you will not that (in our distress,) We ask Death's aid to end life's wretchedness. T'is 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 incertain chance. "He that retires not at the threats of death, "Is not as are the vulgar, slightly faied. "For heaven it self, nor hels infectious breath, "The resolute at any time have stayed. "And (sooth to say) why fear we when we see, "The thing we fear, less then the fear to be. Then let me die my liberty to save, For t'is a death to live a Tyrants slave. Oh but I fear that Fortune seeks new flaws, And still (unsatisfied) more hatred bears. And will the heavens that have so oft defended Our Roman walls, from fury of fierce kings, Not (once again) return our Senators, That from the Lybique plains, and Spanish fields, With fearless hearts do guard our Roman Hope's? Will they not once again encourage them, To fill our fields with blood of enemies. And bring from Affrique to our Capitol, Upon their helms the Empire that is stole. Then homeborn household gods, and you good spirits, To whom in doubtful things we seek access, By whom our family, hath been adorned, And graced with the name of African. Do you vouchsafe that this victorious title, Be not expired in Cornelia's blood; And that my Father now (in affrique wars) The selfsame style by conquest may continue. But wretched that I am, alas I fear. That the frowning heavens, Oppose themselves against us in their wrath. Oh no, our lose lyfts Caesars Fortune's higher. But hath failed him never. My fearful dreams do my despairs redouble. Who is not troubled with strange visions? God grant these dreams, to good effect be brought. The silent Night that long had soiurned, Now gan to cast her sable mantle off, And now the sleepy Wainman softly drove, His slow-pac'd Teem, that long had traveled. When (Like a slumber, if you term it so) A dulness, that disposeth us to rest, Gan close the windows of my watchful eyes, Already tyerd and loaded with my tears. And lo (me thought) came gliding by my bed, The ghost of Pompey, with a ghastly look; All pale and brawn-fallen, not in triumph born, Amongst the conquering Roman as we used, When he (enthronized,) at his feet beheld Great Emperor's, fast bound in chains of brass. But all amazed, with fearful hollow eyes, His hair and beard, deformed with blood and sweat, Casting a thine course lynsel over his shoulders, That (torn in pieces) trailed upon the ground. And (gnashing of his teeth) unlocked his jaws, Which (slyghtly covered with a scarce-seen skin,) This solemn tale, he sadly did begin. Sleepest thou Cornelia? sleepest thou gentle wife, And seest thy Father's misery and mine? Wake dearest sweet, and (over our Sepulchers) In pity show thy latest love to us. Such hap (as ours) attends 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 saved) he may attempt no more, To venge the valour that is tried before. He said. And suddenly a trembling horror, A chyl-cold shyuering (settled in my veins) Brake up my slumber; When I opte my lips Three times to cry, but could nor cry, nor speak. I moved mine head, and flonge abroad mine arms To entertain him, but his airy spirit, Beguiled mine embrasements, and (unkind) Left me embracing nothing but the wind. Oh valiant soul, when shall this soul of mine, Come visit thee in the Elisian shades? Oh 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 (Oh extreme mishap) And such a number of brave regiments, Made of so many expert Soldiers, That loved our liberty and followed him, Be so discomfited? Oh would it were but and illusion. Ayh-me, what see I? Oh cruel Gods, Oh heaven, Oh direful Fates, Oh radiant Sun that slightly guildst our days, Oh night stars, full of infelicities, Oh triple titled Heccat Queen and Goddess, Bereave my life, or living strangle me. Confound me quick, or let me sink to hell. Thrust me from forth the world, that amongst the spirits Infernal Lake's may ring with my laments. Oh miserable, desolate, distresful wretch, Worn with 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 your selves with mine inflamed blood. Ixion's torment, Sysiph's rolling stone, And th'Eagle tyering on Prometheus, Be my eternal tasks; That th'extreame fire, Within my heart, may from my heart retire. I suffer more, more sorrows I endure, Then all the Captives in infernal Court. Oh troubled Fate, Oh fatal misery, That unprovoked, dealest so partially. Say freatfull 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 merrite so much wrong, To see my second husband Pompey slain? But amongst the rest, what horrible offence, What hateful thing (unthought of) have I done, That in the amid of this my mournful state, Nought but my Father's death could expiate? shy death deer Scipio, Rome's eternal lose, Whose hopeful life preserved our happiness. Whose silver hairs encouraged the weak. Whose resolutions did confirm the rest. Whose end, sith it hath ended all my joys, Oh heavens at least permit, of all these plagues, That I may finish the Catastrophe. Sith in this widowhood, of all my Hope's 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, Oh 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. Oh see mine anguish; Happily seeing it, Will move compassion in thee of my pains: And urge thee (if thy heart be not of flint, Or drunk with rigor,) to repent thy self; That thou enflam'dst so cruel a revenge In Caesars heart, upon so slight a cause. And madest him raise so many mournful Tombs, Because thy husband did revive the lights Of thy forsam ken bed; (Unworthily) Opposing of thy freatfull jealousy, Gainst his mishap, as it my help had been, Or as if second marriage were a sin. Was never City where calamity, Hath soiour'd with such sorrow as in this. Was never state wherein the people stood So careless of their conquered liberty, And careful of another's tyranny. Oh Gods, that erst of Carthage took some care, Which by our Father's (pitiless) was spoiled. When thwarting Destiny, at Affrique walls Did topside turvey turn their Commonwealth. When forceful weapons fiercely took away, Their soldiers (sent to nourish up those wars.) When (fierd) their golden Palaces fell down. When through the slaughter afrique seas were died, And sacred Temples quenchlesly inflamed. Now is our hapless time of Hope's expired. Then satisfy your selves with this revenge, Content to count the ghosts of those great Captains, Which (conquered) perished by the Roman swords. The Hannons, the Hamilcars, Asdrubals, Especially, that proudest Hannibal, That made the fair Thrasimene so dezart. For even those fields that mour'd to bear their bodies, Now (loaded) groan to feel the Roman corpses. Their earth we purple over, and on their Tombs We heap our bodies, equalling their ruin. And as a Scipio did reverse their pour, They have a Scipio to revenge them on. Weep therefore Roman Dams, and from henceforth, Valing your Crystal eyes to your fair bosoms, Rain showers of grief upon your Roselike cheeks, And dew your selves with springtides of your tears. Weep Ladies weep, and with your reeking sighs, Thicken the passage of the purest clouds, And press the air with your continual plaints. Beat at your Ivory breasts, and let your robes (Defaced and rend) be witness of your sorrows. And let your hair that wont be wreathed in tresses, Now hang neglectly, dangling down your shoulders, Careless of Art, or rich accoutrements. That with the gold and pearl we used before, Our mournful habits may be decked no more. Alas what shall I do? Oh deer companions, Shall I, Oh shall I live in these laments? Widowed of all my Hope's, my haps, my husbands, And last, not least, bereft of my best Father; And of the joys mine ancestors enjoyed, When they enjoyed their lives and liberty. And must I live to see great Pompey's house, (A house of honour and antiquity) Usurped in wrong by lawless Anthony? Shall I behold the sumptuous ornaments, (Which both the world and Fortune heaped on him,) Adorn and grace his graceless Enemy? Or see the wealth that Pompey gained in war, Sold at a pike, and born away by strangers? Die, rather die Cornelia; And (to spare Thy worthless life that yet must one day perish,) Let not those Captains vainly lie interred, Or Caesar triumph in thine infamy, That Wertenberg the wife to th'one, and th'others daughter. But if I die before I have entombed, My drowned Father in some Sepulcher, Who will perform that care in kindness for me? Shall his poor wandering limbs lie still tormented, Tossed with the salt waves of the wasteful Seas? No lovely Father, and my dearest husband, Cornelia must live, (though life she hates) To make your Tombs, & mourn upon your hearses. Where (languishing,) my famous faithful tears May trickling bath your generous sweet cinders. And afterwards (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 forgo,) Increase the number of the ghosts below. Oh sweet, deer, deplorable cinders, Oh miserable woman, living dying. Oh poor Cornelia, born to be distressed, Why livest thou toiled, that (dead) mightest lie at rest? Oh faithless hands that under cloak of love, Did entertain him, to torment him so. Oh barbarous, inhuman, hateful traitors, This your disloyal dealing hath defamed 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 outraged over and afflicted soul; Murdered a man that did submit himself, And injured him that ever used you kindly. For which misdeed, be Egypt pestered, With battle, famine, and perpetual plagues. Let Aspies, Serpents, Snakes, and Lybian Bears, Tigers, and Lyons, breed with you for ever. And let fair Nylus (wont to nurse your Corn) Cover your Land with Toads and Crocadils, That may infect, devour and murder you. Else earth make way, and hell receive them quick. A hateful raze, amongst whom there doth abide All treason, luxury, and homicide: I do but what I ought to mourn his death: His death he mourned, whom while he live, to live like him he scorn. Who murdered him but he that followed Pompey with the sword? He murdered 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. That was, because that Pompey being their friend, they had determined once of Caesars end. Words are but wind, nor meant he what he spoke. Because himself of life did not bereave him. He never trusted him but to deceive him. But, had he loved him with a love unfeigned, Yet had it been a vain and trustless league; "For there is nothing in the soul of man "So firmly grounded, as can qualify, "Inextinguible thirst of signiory. "Not heavens fear, nor Countries sacred love, "Not ancient laws, nor nuptial chased desire, "Respect of blood, or (that which most should move,) "The inward zeal that Nature does require: "All these, nor any thing we can devise, "Can stoop the heart resolved to tyrannise. My griefs are such, as hardly can be worse. No time qualifies my doleful spirits 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 oppression of my heart, I breathe and Autumn forth of fiery sighs, Yet herewithal my passion neither die, Nor dries the heat the moisture of mine eyes. Yes, news of Caesars death that medcyn bears. I neither stand in fear of him nor his. What can he do? He can do me no mischief that I dread. Thrice happy were I dead. Let him torture me. Pull me in pieces, famish, fire me up, Fling me alive into a Lyons denn: 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 fallen of Room, And slept with Pompey in the peaceful deeps, Save that I live in hope to see ere long, That Caesars death shall satisfy his wrong. We are undone. Oh cruel fortune. Wretch that I am, why leave I not the world? Or wherefore am I not already dead? Oh world, Oh wretch. Oh no, for all is lost. Farewell deer Father. Where is thine Emperor? Oh miserable. Oh earth, why opest thou not? Discourse the manner of his hard mishap, And what disastrous accident did break, So many people bent so much to fight. Oh cruel fortune. My fear proceeds not of and idle dream, For t'is a truth that hath astonished me. I saw great Pompey, and I herd him speak; And thinking to embrace him, opte mine arms, When drousy sleep that waked me at unwares, Did with his flight unclose my fearful eyes So suddenly, that yet me thinks I see him. Howbeit I cannot tuch him, for he slides More swiftly from me then the Ocean glides. Will heaven let treason be unpunished? I fear the heavens will not hear our prayer. Yet Caesar lives still. 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 Caesars death to end our servitude. Else (God to before) my self may live to see, His tired corpse lie toiling in his blood: Gored with a thousand stabs, and round about, The wronged people leap for inward joy. And then come Murder, then come ugly Death, Then Lethe open thine infernal Lake, I'll down with joy: because before I died, Mine eyes have seen what I in heart desired. Pompey may not revive, (and Pompey dead) Let me but see the murderer murdered. Supremacy. By which disguise (what ere he does pretend) His own from being broke he does defend. And by the trains wherewith he us allures, His own estate more firmly he assures.