CHORUS

CAn nothing great, and at the height Remain so long? but it's own weight Will ruin it? Or, is't blind Chance, That still desires new States advance, And quit the old? Else, why must Room Be by it self; now, overcome? Hath she not foes enough of those, Whom she hath made such, and enclose Her round about? Or, are they none, Except she first become her own? Oh wretchedness of greatest States, To be obnoxious to these Fates: That cannot keep, what they do gain; And what they raise so ill sustain. Room, now, is Mistress of the whole World, Sea, and Land, to either Pole; And even that Fortune will destroy The power that made it. She does joy So plenty, wealth, and ease, As, now, th'excesse is her disease. She builds in gold; And, to the Stars: As, if she threatened Heaven with wars; And seeks for Hell, in quarries deep, Giving the fiends, that there do keep, A hope of day. Her Women wear The spoils of Nations, in and ear, Changed for the treasure of a shell; And, in their lose attires, do swell More light then sails, when all winds play: Yet, are the men more lose then they, More kembed, and bathed, and rubbed, and trimmed, More sleeked, more soft, and slacker limmed; As prostitute: so much, that kind May seek it self there, and not find. They eat on beds of silk, and gold; At ivory tables; or, wood sold Dearer then it: and, leaving plate, Do drink in stone of higher rate. They hunt all grounds; and draw all seas; Foul every brook, and bush; to please Their wanton tastes: and, in request Have new, and rare things; not the best. Hence comes that wild, and vast expense, That hath enforced Rome's virtue, thence, Which simple poverty first made; And, now, ambition does invade Her state, with eating avarice, Riot, and every other vice. Decrees are bought, and Laws are sold, Honours, and Offices for gold; The peoples voices: And the free Tongues, in the Senate, bribed be. Such ruin of her manners Room Does suffer now, as she's become (Without the Gods it soon gainsay) Both her own spoiler, and own pray. So, Asia, 'art thou cru'lly even. With us, for all the blows thee given; When we, whose virtue conquered thee, Thus, by thy vices, ruined be. THose Rome's do smell extremely; Bring my glass, And table hither, Galla. GReat Father Mars, and greater Jove, By whose high auspice, Room hath stood So long; and, first, was built in blood Of your great Nephew, that then strove Not with his brother, but your Rites: Be present to her now, as then, And let not proud, and factious Men Against your wills oppose their mights. Our Consuls, now, are to be made; Oh, put it in the public voice To make a free, and worthy choice; Excluding such as would invade The Common wealth. Let whom we name Have wisdom, foresight, fortitude, Be more with faith, then face endued, And study conscience, above am. Such, as not seek to get the start In State, by power, parts, or bribes, Ambition's bawds; but move the Tribes By Virtue, modesty, desert. Such, as to justice will adhaere, What ever great one it offend, And from the embraced truth not bend For envy, hatred, gifts, or fear. That, by their deeds, will make it known, Whose dignity they do sustain; And life, state, glory, all they gain, Count the Republics, not their own. Such the old Bruti, Decii were, The Cipi, Curtii, who did give Themselves for Room: And would not live, As men, good, only for a year. Such were the great Camilli, too; The Fabii, Seipio's; that still thought No work, at price enough, was bought, That for their Country they could do. And, to her honour, so did knit; As all their acts were understood The sinews of the Public good: And they themselves, oh e soul, with it. These men were truly Magistrates; These neither practised force, nor forms; Nor did they leave the helm, in storms: And such they are make happy States. GReat Honours are great burdens: But, on whom They'are cast with envy, he does bear two loads. His cares must still be double to his joys, In any Dignity; where, if he err He finds no pardon: and, for doing well A most small praise, and that wrung out, by force. I speak this, Romans, knowing what the weight Of the high charge, you have trusted to me, is. Not, that thereby I would with art decline The good, or greatness of your benefit; For, I ascribe it to your singular grace And vow, to owe it to no title else, Except the Gods, that Cicero 'is your Consul. I have no urns; no dusty monuments; No broken images of ancestors, Wanting and ear, or nose; no forged tables Of long descents, to boast false honours from; Or be my undertakers to your trust. But a new Man (as I am stiled in Room ) Whom you have dignified; and more, in whom Yo'haue cut a way, and left it open for virtue Hereafter, to that place, which our Great men Held shut up, with all rampires, for themselves. Nor have but few of them, in time be made Your Consuls so; New men, before me, none: At my first suit; In my joust year; Preferred To all competitors; and some the noblest. WHat is it, Heavens, you prepare With so much swiftness, and so sudden rising? There are no Sons of earth, that dare, Again, rebellion: or the Gods surprising? The World does shake, and Nature fears, Yet is the tumult, and the horror greater Within our minds, then in our ears, So much Rome's faults (now grown her Fate) do threat her. The Priests, and People run about, Each Order, Age, and Sex amazed at other; And, at the ports, all thronging out, As if their safety were to quit their Mother: Yet find they the same dangers there, From which they make such hast to be preserved; For guilty States do ever bear The plagues about them, which they have deserved. And, till those plagues do get above The mountain of our faults, and there do fit; We see them not. Thus, still we love The'evill we do, until we suffer it. But, most, ambition, that near vice To virtue, hath the fate of Room provoked; And made, that now Rome's self no price, To free her from the death, wherewith she's yoked. That restless Ill, that still does built Upon success; and ends not in aspiring: But there begins. And never is filled, Whil ought remains that seems but worth desiring. Where in the Thought, unlike the Eye, To which things far, seem smaller then they are, Deems all contentment placed on high: And thinks there's nothing great, but what is far. Oh, that in time, Room did not cast Her errors up, this fortune to prevent; To-have seen her crimes'ere they were passed: And felt her faults, before her punishment. Now, do our ears, before our eyes, Like men in mists, Discover, who'ld the State surprise, And who resists? And, as these clouds do yield to light, Now, do we see, Our thoughts of things, how they did fight, Which seemed agree? Of what strange pieces are we made, Who nothing know; But, as new Airs our ears invade, Still censure so? That now do hope, and now do fear, And now envy; And then do hate, and then love deer, But know not, why: Or, if we do, it is so late, As our best mood, Though true, is then thought out of date, And empty of good. How have we changed, and come about In every doom, Since wicked Catiline went out, And quit Room? One while, we thought him innocent; And, then, with accused The Consul, for his malice spent; And power abused. Since, that we hear, he is in Arms, We think not so: Yet charge the Consul, with our harms, That let him go. So, in our censure of the State, We still do wander; And make the careful Magistrate The mark of slander. What age is this, where honest men Placed at the helm, A Sea of some foul mouth, or pen, Shall overwhelm? And call their diligence, deceit; Their virtue, vice; Their watchfulness, but lying in wait And blood, the price. Oh, let us pluck this evil eede Out of our spirits; And give, to every noble deed, The name it merits. Least we seem fallen (if this endures) Into those times, To love disease: and brook the cures Worse, then the crimes. IT is my fortune, and my glory, Soldiers, This day, to led you on; the worthy Consul Kept from the honour of it, by disease: And I am proud, to have so brave a cause To exercise your arms in. We not, now, Fight for how long, how broad, how great, and large Th'extent, and bounds o'th' people of Room shall be; But to retain what our great Ancestors, With all their labours, counsels, arts, and actions, For us, were purchasing so many years. The quarrel is not, now, of fame, of tribute, Or of wrongs, done unto Confederates, For which, the Army of the people of Room Was wont to move: but for your own Republic, For the raised Temples of th'immortall Gods, For all your Fortune's, Altars, and your Fires, For the deer souls of your loved Wives, and Children, Your Parents tombs, your Rites, Laws, Liberty, And, briefly, for the safety of the World: Against such men, as only by their crimes Are known; thrust out by riot, want, or rashness. One sort, Sylla's old troops, left here in Fesulae, Who suddenly made rich, in those dire times, Are since, by their unbounded, vast expense, Grown needy, and poor, and have but left t'expect, From Catiline, new Bills, and new Proscriptions. These men (they say) are valiant; yet, I think them Not worth your pause: For either their old virtue Is, in their sloth, and pleasures lost; or, if It tarry with them, so ill match to yours, As they are short in number, or in cause. The second sort are of those (City-beasts, Rather then Citizens) who while they reach After our Fortune's, have let fly their own; These, whelmed in wine, swelled up with meats, and weakened With hourly whoredoms, never left the side Of Catiline, in Room; nor, here, are loosed From his embraces: Such, as (trust me) never In riding, or in using well their arms, Watching, or other military labour, Did exercise their youth; but learned to love, Drink, dance, and sing, make feasts, and be fine gamesters. And these will wish more hurt to you, then they bring you. The rest are a mixed kind, all sorts of furies Adulterers, Dicers, Fencers, Outlaws, Thieves, The Murderers of their Parents, all the sink, And plague of Italy, met in one torrent, To take, to day, from us the punishment, Endue to their mischiefs, for so many years. And who, in such a cause, and against such fiends, Would not now wish himself all arm, and weapon? To cut such poisons from the earth, and let Their blood out, to be drawn away in clouds, And poured, on some inhabitable place, Where the hight Sun, and Slime breeds nought but Monsters? Chiefly, when this sure joy shall crown our side, That the least man, that falls upon our party This day (as some must give their happy names To fate, and that eternal memory Of the best death, writ with it, for their Country) Shall walk at pleasure, in the tents of rest; And see far off, beneath him, all their host Tormented after life: and Catiline, there, Walking a wretched, and less Ghost, then he. I'll urge no more: Move forward, with your Eagles, And trust the Senates, and Rome's cause to Heaven. The voice of Cato is the voice of Room. Most noble Consul! Let us wait him home. Help, aid the Consul.