CORNELIA

Traitors why drag you thus a Princes wife, As if that beauty were a thrall to fate. Are Romans grown more barbarous than Greeks, That hale more greater than Cassandra now? The Macedonian Monarch was more kind, That honoured and relieved in warlike camp Darius mother, daughters and his wife, But you unkind to Roma e Ladies now, Perhaps as constant as the Asian Queens, For they subdued had friendship in disgrace, Where we unconquered live in woeful case. I am Cornelia Scillas wife: what there? Fie Fulvia, shall thy father's daughter faint Before the threats of dangers shall approach? Dry up those tears, and Like a Roman maid, Be bold and silent till our foe have said. Accursed Marius, offspring of my pains, Whose furious wrath hath wrought thy countries woe What may remain for me or mine in Room, That see the tokens of thy tyrannies? Vile monster, robbed of virtue, what revenge Is this, to wreak thine anger on the walls? To raze our house, to banish all our friends, To kill the rest, and captive us at last? Thinkest thou by barbarcos deeds to boast thy state, Or spoiling Scylla to depress his hate? No Marius, but for every drop of blood And inch of wrong he shall return thee two. And in regard of that unmodest man, Thou shouldst desist from outrage and revenge. Your Lordship's passing mannerly iniest, But that you may perceive we smell your drift, We both will fit and countenance your shift. Then suffer us in private chamber close To meditate a day or two alone: And tyrant if thou find us living then, Commit us straight unto thy slaughtering men. Lo Fulvia, now the latest doom is fixed, And nought remains but constant Roman hearts, To bear the brunt of irksome furies spite, Rouse thee my deer, and daunt those faint conceits, That trembling stand aghast at bitter death: Bethink thee now that Scylla was thy sire, Whose courage heaven nor fortune could abate. Then Like the offspring of fierce Scillas house, Pass with the thrice renowned Phrigian Dame, As to thy marriage, so unto thy death: For nought to wretches is more sweet than death. I Marius, for terror cannot daunt us: Tortors were framed to dread the baser eye, And not t'appall a princely majesty. Does Marius use with glorious words to jest, And mock his captives with these glossing terms? If Ladies prayers or tears may move the heavens, Scylla shall vow himself old Marius friend. And urn of gold shall hem his ashes in, The Vestal virgins with their holy notes Shall sing his famous (though too fatal) death, I and my Fulvia with dispersed hair Will weight upon this noble Romans hearse. I Marius, now I know thou dost not he And that thou mayest unto thy lasting blame, Extinguish in our death's thy wished fame. Grant us this boon that making choice of death, We may be freed from fury of thine ire, How fares my Lord? how does my gentle Scylla? Words full of woe still adding to my grief, A cureless cross of many hundredth harms. O let not Room and poor Cornelia lose, The one his friend, the other her delight. o hideous storms of never daunted fate, Now are those eyes whose sweet reflections cold The smothered rancors of rebellious thoughts Clad with the sable mantles of the nig to. And Like the tree that robbed of sun and showers Mourns desolate withouten leaf or sap: so poor Cornelia late bereft of love, Sits sighing, hapless, ioyles and forlorn.