Marcus Tullius Cicero The Tragedy of that Famous Roman Oratovr Marcus Tullius Cicero |
| 1. | Actus Primus. |
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 | Marcus Tullius Cicero |  |
Actus Primus.
Julius Cæsars Ghost.What not one prodigie to rouze thee, Rome,
And give loud warning that great Cæsar's come?
What not one peale of thunder to proclaime,
And echo from thy seven proud hills the fame
Of my arrivall? is my weight so light
It cannot force one dismall grone t'affright
And wake thy Genius? is the ground thus rent,
And Julius like an exhalation sent
From the black womb of hell, yet cannot strike
An Earthquake in thy brest? I like, I like
Such dire forerunners. What? before my fall,
In Romes great Forum, upon every stall,
A bird of Night was percht in midst of day,
And when black Night her mantle did display
(As if the Stygian people had forsooke
Their pitchy harbours, and possession tooke
Of th'upper world) the Aire was fill'd with streams
Of rowling fires, and the presaging dreams
Of Citizens were broke by dismall frights
Caus'd by the confus'd noise of walking sprights:
And is my rise so full of silence?
Thunder.
So,
Now stubborne Rome I'l thunder forth thy woe.
Cæsar must be reveng'd, and to thy cost.
Alas thou canst not bribe my wronged Ghost,
With the vaine fiction of thy Julian starre;
VVere I but stellified indeed I'd mar
Thy pride with such an influence should convay
Submission through thy blond, and cast a ray
Should light a Sun to rule the Roman world
Without a Colleague: yet this fate is hurl'd
Through thy own blindnesse on thy cursed head,
And with such plagues to usher't, as thy dead,
Thy butcher'd Julius from his soul abhor'd;
My glory was, that Fortune did afford
That royall power to doe thee good I would,
And Nature heart to will the good I could.
But I was too too mild; a heavier hand
Shall make thee stoop to Soveraign command,
And kisse the yoak, though sullied first and died
In thine own gore; a sourge shall check thy pride;
The dayes of Sylla shall return, and bloud
Swim down thy streets in as profuse a floud,
As ere his black proscriptions made, the sword
Shall be as free as then, the Slave his Lord,
The Wife her Husband shall betray, the Son
Thinking the vitall thread of's Father spun
To a too tedious length, and that his feet
Travel too slowly to the grave, shall greet
His age with death; The Senators shall drink
Of the same cup of slaughter too, and think
The burden easy, for, A sudden death
Is sweet to them that scorn a slavish breath.
Each Proscripts head shall bear a weighty rate,
And Piety be treason to the State.
Thus, Rome, shalt thou be plagued, and among
Thy other evills lose thy sacred Tongue,
The great Patritian of the speaking Art,
Then shal thy griefs lie fettered in thy heart,
And speak no other language but of tears;
Words shall be strangled by thy stupid fears.
Exit.
Enter Marcus Cicero.
Now ought we to give thanks unto the Gods
That now at length the Fathers of the Publick
With free unforced judgments dare lay open
The sick distempers, which disease and trouble
I see some gleame of liberty break forth
And promise to the State a milder sunshine,
Then, since our late unbridled Phaetons
Usurpt the Roman heav'n, we have been blest with.
As for my self, though now grown old and feeble
In my lov'd Countreys service, I have yet
As good a heart as ever to defend her.
What though my voice did seem a while supprest?
My heart did nourish an untainted love
Of the Republick, which in zealous flames
'Has now discharg'd it self in th'face of Antony
That Traitor to the freedome of his Countrey;
I did defend while but a Youth, the State,
I will not now I am grown old forsake it;
I have contemn'd, the swords of Catiline;
I will not now fear his.
Some twenty yeers agoe I well remember
I said Death could not to a Consular
Be immature; how much more truly now
May I pronounce unto an aged man?
Now may I wish for Death, yet from my heart
Two things I doe desire, and pray for; one,
That I may leave the Roman people free,
Th'immortall Gods cannot bestow upon mee
A greater blessednesse: the other's this;
That all may meet with a proportion'd fate,
As their deserts have been unto 'the State.
Enter Laureas.
Laur.
Your Brother Quintus Sir.
Marc.
Intreat him hither.
Enter Qu. Cicero, and Philologus.
Brother you'r welcome: How does thy Pomponia,
And my young Cozen?
Quint.
Both my Wife and Sonne
Are (heaven be thankt) as well as my best wishes
Can fancy they would have them; and my Wife
Presents her love, my Son his duty to you.
Marc.
They cannot by a better messenger,
For you are Monarch of Pomponia's love,
And Sov'raigne of his duty; these are titles
Good in Oeconomy, but once thrust out
Make heavy hearts in State when they return;
You have not heard of Antony's proceedings
Since he departed to Brundusium?
Quint.
Not one word.
Marc.
I collect the Consuls drift;
But why doe I the State that injury
To style him Consul that so governs it,
That leads his life so, and was so created?
His aim I know's at those four Legions
Transported from the Macedonian Province
At his appointment thither by his brother;
Twere dangerous he should win them; but I have
A surer confidence in the Martiall Legion,
For it has ever been extoll'd as much
For its integrity toth'State as prowesse;
The fourth is under conduct of the Quæstor
Egnatuleius, a brave Citizen
And valiant man, so that I cannot doubt
But hee'l be partly frustrate.
Then Cæsars posting to Campania
Puts me in hope, 'tis to procure the Colonies
There resident, to side with him, against
Antonius; for you know the Noble youth
Will not bee checkt by him. But Brother Quintus
I have some private matters: which require
A more retired conference; take a seat.
Laureas.
How does my fellow Academick? canst
Digest my Lords discourse of Summum bonum?
Philol.
'Tis somewhat tough, methinks; but Laureas
Which hadst thou rather be? An Epicure?
A Stoick? or Peripatetick? tell mee.
Laur.
Why faith before I was infranchiz'd boy,
The Stoick would have furnisht mee compleatly,
I should have laugh'd a cudgell in the face,
And swore a bed of straw had been as soft
As wool, or doune of Ermins. I should then
Have stood as stout as Atlas with a burden
Weighty as his upon my brawny shoulders;
But since I did with thee shake off the Name
And Nature of a slave, and serve my Lord
More for affection then constraint, I could
Sometimes methinks shake hands with Epicurus.
Marc.
It must be so. But brother since your hast
Hinders your longer stay, let me entreat you
Philologus a while may bear me company.
Quint.
With all my heart.
Marc.
My love unto Pomponia.
Quint.
I will; Farewell.
Marc.
Farewell good brother Quintus.
Exit. Qu.
Philologus and Laureas come let's hear
How you have relisht your Philosophy.
Phil.
My Lord, your Laureas relishes extreamly,
For he is almost turn'd an Epicure.
Cicero.
An Epicure!
Laur.
Not I my Lord, I told him
Virtue which in a proud conceit neglected
The due preservatives of the weaker nature,
And was estranged from that first-born dictate
Of making natures union, if'twere possible,
Immortall, by a competent cherishing
Of either part, and in an extasie
Like an Intelligence, all Soul and Reason,
Was wholly taken up with mentall beauties;
Was like a table furnisht with rare viands,
But not a dish prepar'd with Condimentall
Provocatives to make the relish kind;
For Virtue is, we know, a fruitlesse, rude,
Impolisht treasure, without use and action,
Which give it taste and life, now to the use
Health, wealth and liberty are requisite,
That root of goodnesse. Thus you may see my Lord,
Laureas is neither Epicure nor Stoick;
'Twas only the comparison which made
Your shallow-brain'd Scholastick think I was
One of the Kitchen; but were I a hog
Of Epicures fraternity, yet his brain
Should not be th'Atalanta to unhead me.
Cicer.
Why here's no sign of Epicure in this,
'Tis currant and Authentick.
Phil.
True, but Sir,
He harpt upon another string even now.
Yet, since he is so cunning, pray my Lord
Let me be Stoicall a while, and try
Whether he be sound as he pretends.
Laur.
Pish, there's a face to act a Stoick with!
Make me beleeve the Goddesse Venus thought
She was embrac't by Mars, when 'twas young Adon
With whom she dallyed. Give me one shall look
With as severe a countenance as Cato
When he unshackled his Heroick soule.
Cicer.
No more of him, I pray, unlesse yu would
Make fountains of my eyes; but Laureas
You have the fittest visage for a Stoick,
It shall be your part.
Laur.
Then my Noble Lord,
Suppose I had ingrost the Stoick wisdome
Within my bosome, and were now brought forth
To some unheard of torture: thus I'd stand,
And thus I'd dare the utmost of their furies.
Vain Mortalls, doe you think my fearlesse soule
Is capable of pains? why, tear this flesh
From off my bones; you touch not mee: for know
This is not Laureas but his robe. Extract
The very quintessence of the strongest poisons,
I'l quaffe it as I would divinest Nectar,
And think it but a draught of Immortality:
Cast me alive into a den of Lions,
I will embrace my destiny, and deem
The loudest accent of their spatious throats
But as a trumpet to proclaime my triumphs.
I would not bellow in Perillus engine,
But like the Swan in Tybers silver streams
Sing my own dirge with an unwrinckled note.
Nay, more then this, the disunited Heavens
Tumbling upon my head should not affright me,
Yea the confused ratling of their ruines
Should be as ravishing harmony to my ears,
As now they make in their cœlestiall sphears.
Suppose I had ingrost the Stoick wisdome
Within my bosome, and were now brought forth
To some unheard of torture: thus I'd stand,
And thus I'd dare the utmost of their furies.
Vain Mortalls, doe you think my fearlesse soule
Is capable of pains? why, tear this flesh
From off my bones; you touch not mee: for know
This is not Laureas but his robe. Extract
The very quintessence of the strongest poisons,
I'l quaffe it as I would divinest Nectar,
And think it but a draught of Immortality:
Cast me alive into a den of Lions,
I will embrace my destiny, and deem
The loudest accent of their spatious throats
But as a trumpet to proclaime my triumphs.
I would not bellow in Perillus engine,
But like the Swan in Tybers silver streams
Sing my own dirge with an unwrinckled note.
Nay, more then this, the disunited Heavens
Tumbling upon my head should not affright me,
Yea the confused ratling of their ruines
Should be as ravishing harmony to my ears,
As now they make in their cœlestiall sphears.
Now, Sir, suppose the anger of some tyrant
Had thrust me from the bosome of my Countrey,
From the embraces of a faithfull spouse,
And the sweet pledges of our mutuall loves,
And I were wandring in some wildernesse,
Within whose gloomy shades was never heard
The Daulian minstrell, but the boding tones
Of Owles, and Night-ravens, and in every bush
Lay coucht a Lion, Tiger, or a Wolfe:
Would I sit musing in a dumpish passion?
And cry, O Times! O Manners! no my Lord,
A wise man does not tie his house, or home
To the tuition of one private I ar,
Nor does he bound what men their Countrey call
To the straight limits of one State or Kingdome;
Though Thule were the place of my Nativity,
Yet should the Gades be my countrey too.
I have a little world within my selfe,
And shall one narrow Landskip claim me hers?
Now for those petty dangers I defie them,
A wise man carries in his sacred front
The character of Majesty, which brutes
Though ne'r so wild and savage must adore.
As for my Wife and Children they were given mee
Not for æternity, and as good be sever'd
By exile as by death: had I still liv'd
Dividing my indulgent soule among them,
I might perhaps have seen my loving Wife
Ravisht before my face, I might have seen
My Childrens brains knockt out against the stones,
And dasht in my own wounded eyes, but now
I shall not view those clouds. Thus had I been
Unhappy, had I not unhappy been.
Had thrust me from the bosome of my Countrey,
From the embraces of a faithfull spouse,
And the sweet pledges of our mutuall loves,
And I were wandring in some wildernesse,
Within whose gloomy shades was never heard
The Daulian minstrell, but the boding tones
Of Owles, and Night-ravens, and in every bush
Lay coucht a Lion, Tiger, or a Wolfe:
Would I sit musing in a dumpish passion?
And cry, O Times! O Manners! no my Lord,
A wise man does not tie his house, or home
To the tuition of one private I ar,
Nor does he bound what men their Countrey call
To the straight limits of one State or Kingdome;
Though Thule were the place of my Nativity,
Yet should the Gades be my countrey too.
I have a little world within my selfe,
And shall one narrow Landskip claim me hers?
Now for those petty dangers I defie them,
A wise man carries in his sacred front
The character of Majesty, which brutes
Though ne'r so wild and savage must adore.
As for my Wife and Children they were given mee
Not for æternity, and as good be sever'd
By exile as by death: had I still liv'd
Dividing my indulgent soule among them,
I might perhaps have seen my loving Wife
Ravisht before my face, I might have seen
My Childrens brains knockt out against the stones,
And dasht in my own wounded eyes, but now
I shall not view those clouds. Thus had I been
Unhappy, had I not unhappy been.
And now my honor'd Lord, with wonder hear,
How in a yet unparallel'd Affliction
Your Stoick Laureas would demean himselfe.
Suppose my Lo.—O how my heart-strings ake
To utter't! yea it makes me clean forget
The Stoick whom I personate: I say
Suppose—O hold me good Philologus.
The very thought will strike me dead—suppose
My bosome Friend, my faithfull Pylades,
My second selfe, even my Philologus,
Were whipt clean through the streets of Rome & cudgel'd
Till his bones crackt again, d'yee think I'd weep?
Lift up my eyes, and cry, O cursed Heavens
Which suffer innocence thus to be afflicted!
Now, my Lord, I'd doe an Act of wonder
Which after Ages should admire; I'd down
And in the Cellar all my sorrows drown.
How in a yet unparallel'd Affliction
Your Stoick Laureas would demean himselfe.
Suppose my Lo.—O how my heart-strings ake
To utter't! yea it makes me clean forget
The Stoick whom I personate: I say
Suppose—O hold me good Philologus.
The very thought will strike me dead—suppose
My bosome Friend, my faithfull Pylades,
My second selfe, even my Philologus,
Were whipt clean through the streets of Rome & cudgel'd
Till his bones crackt again, d'yee think I'd weep?
Lift up my eyes, and cry, O cursed Heavens
Which suffer innocence thus to be afflicted!
Now, my Lord, I'd doe an Act of wonder
Which after Ages should admire; I'd down
And in the Cellar all my sorrows drown.
Cicer.
I'st come to this? you are a wanton Laureas.
Laur.
'Tis Stoicall my Lord.
Cicer.
Well let it be so.
But since you think you could so sweetly sing
In th'engine of Perillus; let me hear you
Out of't. for I'm perswaded you might frame
Your voice a great deal better to a song
In a far colder place.
Laur.
'Tis true my Lord;
But I spoke like a Stoick.
Cicer.
Be not modest.
Begin: but let your song be sage, and grave,
Such as a Vestall need not blush to hear.
Rip up the Vices of the State, that while
You sing, my wounded heart may bleed for sorrow.
Laur.
How
happy was the Roman State?
When her chiefest Magistrate
Was rais'd to the fasces from the plow?
When such as Cincinnatus sway'd
The helme of th'Common-wealth, and made
Her proudest Adversaries humbly bow
To th'self same yoak wherewith they us'd to check
The stubbornnesse of th'toiling heisers neck?
When her chiefest Magistrate
Was rais'd to the fasces from the plow?
When such as Cincinnatus sway'd
The helme of th'Common-wealth, and made
Her proudest Adversaries humbly bow
To th'self same yoak wherewith they us'd to check
The stubbornnesse of th'toiling heisers neck?
How sacred was the Roman Name?
How shining was our virgin fame?
When in their homes our bravest men
Had nothing glorious but themselves?
When he who now in quarries delves,
For golden ore as low as Pluto's den,
Was deem'd a Paricide, and had the doome
Of one who rent his Mothers sacred wombe?
How shining was our virgin fame?
When in their homes our bravest men
Had nothing glorious but themselves?
When he who now in quarries delves,
For golden ore as low as Pluto's den,
Was deem'd a Paricide, and had the doome
Of one who rent his Mothers sacred wombe?
How happy were we then, how blest,
When the Republick was possest
Of those ancient Palinures?
When Curius and Fabricius led
Her Armies, which for dainties fed
On boiled Turneps? then the easie cures
Of her more temp'rate body soon were wrought,
Her health with little losse of bloud was bought.
When the Republick was possest
Of those ancient Palinures?
When Curius and Fabricius led
Her Armies, which for dainties fed
On boiled Turneps? then the easie cures
Of her more temp'rate body soon were wrought,
Her health with little losse of bloud was bought.
But since the Asian luxurie
Has crept into our veins, and we
No lesse for fame in dishes strive
Then if we had the conquest wonne
Of the stout Hamilcars sonne,
Or brought the treacherous Syphax home alive
To grace, our Triumphs: now a thousand paines
Lie brooding in the States corrupted veins.
Has crept into our veins, and we
No lesse for fame in dishes strive
Then if we had the conquest wonne
Of the stout Hamilcars sonne,
Or brought the treacherous Syphax home alive
To grace, our Triumphs: now a thousand paines
Lie brooding in the States corrupted veins.
The Common-wealth is ful of tumors,
And each day repugnant humors
Threaten the downfall of this frame;
Her constitution is too weak
To harbour such gueste, and not break,
Unlesse some pitying Deity quench the flame.
Bee thou our Æculapius mighty Jove,
And send some healing influence from above.
And each day repugnant humors
Threaten the downfall of this frame;
Her constitution is too weak
To harbour such gueste, and not break,
Unlesse some pitying Deity quench the flame.
Bee thou our Æculapius mighty Jove,
And send some healing influence from above.
Philologus and Laureas
together.
Be thou our Æsculapius mighty Jove,
And send some healing influence from above.
Cicer.
So here's a Song has fire in't, Poetrie;
O 'tis the language of the Gods when Virtue
Is made her theam; they prostitute the Muses,
And turn Parnassus to a stews, that cloath
Their unwasht fancies in these sacred weeds.
Enter Quintus Cicero.
Marc.
Brother so soon? your countenance me thinks
Tells me your bosome travails with some newes,
And fain would be deliver'd.
Quint.
Sir, Octavius
Is with an Army at the gates.
Mar.
Octavius?
Why, that's not Hannibal.
Quint.
But the Citizens
Suspect a more then Panick treachery;
For those that saw the Consul and Octavius
So lately reconcil'd in the Capitoll,
Will not beleeve these forces are contracted
To oppose Antonius; but that covertly
Both have complotted one to aid the other
In the promotion of their aimes; that Antony
May gain the Soveraignty, and Octavius
Revenge on those which slew his unkle Julius.
Enter Tyro.
Tyr.
Carnutius, Sir, the Tribune of the people
Desires some conference with your Lordship.
Mar.
Quintus,
He's a profest foe to Antonius,
And friend to Cæsar. Bring the Tribune in.
Enter Carnutius.
Car.
Octavius is return'd.
Mar.
I, so I hear,
Car.
And brought along with him ten thousand souldiers.
I have explor'd his aimes, and they are whole
For opposition of the Consul Antony
Whom he has much endamag'd.
Mar.
How Carnutius?
Car.
By spies, which he has closely had about him
Still crossing and opposing his proceedings,
And with such good successe, as now the Legions
Are even upon desertion of his party
Especially the Fourth and Martiall.
Mar.
Tribune,
Informe the people how the youth's affected,
And Ile procure he shall be straight brought in;
For I'm perswaded, since he is return'd
Antonius enemy, the provident Senate
Will not be so injurious to the State
And their own safeties, as deny him entrance,
Yea, I presume they will with glad consent
Meet the first motion of his entertainment.
Car.
They wil no doubt; Come let's dispatch my Lo.
Exeunt.
Enter Piso and Salvius.
Salv.
Me thinks th'admittance of Octavius,
Will much endamage Antony.
I fear it,
And doubt not but he will be shortly here:
But what dost think of this young upstart, Salvius?
It cannot enter Piso's head, that zeal,
To the Republick do's incite him to it.
Salv.
'Faith Piso my opinion's this; I doubt
The boy will prove at length another Iulius.
Piso.
And so think I.
Salv.
Was't ever known a youth
Of his hot spirit, was so much devoted
Unto his Countrey cause without some plot
To strengthen his ambitious aims? well Piso,
I am perswaded Cæsars heart and countenance
Are not Correlatives.
Pis.
And I fear our Orator,
Although he think himself a profound Statist,
Is but as 'twere a visor, which Octavius
Covers the face of his close projects with:
Well, mark the end, these now are but surmises,
But they may prove oraculous. Let this passe.
I think if Antony come he will not stay,
You know he has determin'd to be Master
Of the Cisalpiue Province.
Salv.
True, he has.
Pis.
Now when he's gone to Gaul, if Cicero
Advice the Senate any thing against him,
It must be our parts to oppose their counsells.
Salv.
It must. I'l second you, you know I may
Doe much by virtue of the Tribuneship.
Pis.
'Tis true, you may doe much indeed.
Enter Messenger.
Mess.
The Consul
Antonius is arriv'd; and, Lucius Piso,
Desires your presence; to you, Salvius,
He sends his love, and prays you to repaire
Unto the Senate, which is newly convocated.
Salv.
Piso return my love, Ile thither straight.
Ex.
Enter Quintus Cicero. Pomponia.
Pomp.
How do's my Brother Marcus Cicero?
Quint.
Well my Pomponia, but would be far better
Could he once see the Common-wealth in health.
Pomp.
Why, husband; what have States diseases too?
Quint.
They have my Sweet, and as old fathers die
To make roome for posterity, so Chance
Quits ancient States, that from their ruines may
New ones arise. States have their severall ages
Which carry some analogie with ours:
Their small beginnings are their infancies.
Their bold exploits to propagate their glories,
Are like the flashes of ambitious Youth;
When they are mounted to the highest pitch
Decreed them in the starry Consistory,
They are arriv'd to a state much like
That which in us doth bear the name of Manhood.
They stand not long on this high tower of Glory.
But stealingly, as wee, doe fall away;
Their sprightly vigour like a full-blown Rose
Droops and decays, they suddenly contract
Distempers; grow diseas'd, and finally
Sink down into the grave of their own ruines
The Babylonian and the Persian Monarchies
Di'd of a Surfet; then the Macedonian
Of a seditious quarrell in the Humours
Striving to be predominant;
Greece of a Meagrim; Carthage first was caught
With an unruly Feaver, which at last
Degenerated to an Ague, and
Was quickly seconded by Death. But Rome
(Only she never felt an Ague yet,
Unlesse when Hannibal was at her gates)
Is whole infected with a various mixture
Of all together; she's ev'n grown a Spittle,
An Hospitall of diseases which will sink
Her glories to the first and ancient Nothing:
But may that day be leaden heel'd, nor fall
Within the compasse of this Age.
Pomp.
Fie Husband,
This passion is not Roman. We may raise
Our spirits with hopes of better times;
Cæsar affords us comfort.
Quint.
True Pomponia,
But Rome has had a long succession
Of State-usurpers, when this Hydra's head
Is cut away, another may bud forth;
Pray heaven we have no cause with that old Beldam
Of Syracusa, in our fruitlesse wishes
To dig our Ancient tyrants up again.
Enter Marcus Cicero.
Welcome from the Senate Brother, pray what news?
How were things carryed?
Mar.
Nothing done at all.
The Consul Antony came without all doubt
To censure Cæsars doings, but his mind
It seem's was chang'd; for having said a little
Touching the Provinces and Marius Lepidus,
But not a word of Cæsar, he departed.
Quint.
And what will follow think you?
Mar.
Sure he will not
Stay long in Rome, for, as I hear, 'has sent
His Army to Ariminum, no doubt
With an intent to follow, then besides
I think he dares not stay for fear of Cæsar;
For he return'd though proudly, yet but weakly
With only one Prætocian cohort with him.
But 'tis grown something late, I must intreat you
To let my Cousen Quintus guide me homeward.
Quint.
He will be proud to doe you such a service.
Exeunt.
Enter Antonius.
Ant.
What evill Genius crosses me? the Fourth
For so I have receiv'd Intelligence;
Well I'l to Alba, whither, as I heare,
The Martiall Legion have betooke themselves.
I will not thus be thwarted by a boy,
Enter Fulvia.
A mungrell; sooner shall a Bee or Gnat
Stop the proud Eagle in his airy course,
And heaven be scaled by a band of Pygmies.
Let Cicero call him Romes Junonian boy,
And truly golden off-spring of his Mother,
Let the whole Senate hug him, as they doe;
Yet will I choak and ruine all their hopes,
I'l send him naked home to his first Nothing,
And make him answer to Thurinus: what?
Is not the Family of th'Antonii
Deriv'd from Anton son to Hercules?
And shall these sons of Earth confront mee thus?
The stellifi'd Alcides shall not lose
The cheerfull lustre of his rays, to see
His bloud run muddy in his issues veins.
Fulv.
I like this spirit, Mark, methinks I see
The world already prostrate at thy feet,
Cherish this fire: ô wer't thou all compos'd
Of these Heroick flames, Fulvia would be
To such a Jove another Semele.
Anton.
Spoke like thy glorious self: yet, Fulvia,
Passion or indiscretion may contemn him,
But when I weigh his Actions in the ballance
Of serious and more accurate Construction,
I find he has no base or common soul,
And does as well inherit Cæsars heart,
And courage, as his name: besides he has
The counsells of experienc'd heads to steer
His Actions by; so that he's now above
The pitch of my disdain: with strong-nerv'd eys,
Like a young Eagle, he confronts our Sun.
Fulv.
What cool'd so soon? Octavius an Eagle?
A Scarab rather. He an Eagle Antony?
He's but a Ganymed in an Eagles claw:
The Octavian family never yet was nest
To such a kingly bird. But who I pray
Are those experienc'd heads you talk of? what?
Is that Tongue-valiant Cicero worth the fear
Of Fulvia's Antony?
No doubt but he who has of late divorc't
His Wife Terentia, and in her place
Made a young Girle his consort, may as soon
Supplant Antonius, and set up that boy:
O 'twas great policy to exercise
Himselfe upon the weaker sex at first;
Your turne is next: the Hawk thus tries his talons
Upon some meaner prey, before he ventures
To grapple with the Eagle or the Heron.
Anton.
I think Minerva's self dwells in thee Fulvia,
Such words as these might fire the coldest bosome,
And by strong Alchymie transmure a heart
Of Leaden temper, to a golden Purity.
Were young Octavius indeed an Eagle,
And nested in the bosome of Great Jove,
I'd pluck him thence: As for that Cicero,
My feare, if I had any, should not be
Pitcht on so base an object: I will make
That Inmate know what 'tis to write my life,
H'ad been as good have publisht to the world
The mystick name of Rome. But let that Cerberus
Proceed to belch his poisonous vomit forth
At view of light; yet shall his unwasht mouth
One day repent that biting impudence.
Fulv.
And there may come a time when Fulvia
Shall be revenged on his wormwood jeers.
O how my entralls boil! my heart's on fire:
Had I his damned tongue within my clutthes,
This bodkin should in bloody characters
Write my revenge.
Ant.
Come Fulvia, be content,
Let him triumph, and in his proud conceit
Frame to himself a conquest great as Joves
Over those sons of Earth, and parallel
His verball thunder with the voice of Heaven,
Yet may I one day be that stronger Typhon
Shall cut the sinews of his insolence,
And place thee Juno in this Romes Olympus.
Come kisse me Sweeting, though the drousie Sol
Have not yet left the bosome of his Thetis,
Yet here's no nightly shade, for from thine eyes
Breakes a more glorious day. I could, my beauty,
For ever dwell in thy divine embraces,
But I must leave thee, yea and that before
Aurora's first blush gilds, the East; thou knowst
My Armie is sent before unto Ariminum,
And I must follow; I will have the Province
Of Decimus Brutus; I, I will, that's certain,
By fair or foul means; Julius my Colleague
Return'd from Gaul so happily establisht,
Great Pompey's selfe was vanquisht by his Eagles.
I know an Army will be soon sent after,
And war proclaim'd against me as an enemy
To th'State, if once I offer violence
To Decimus, but I'm resolv'd, and should
The whole world rise against me, what I've said
I'l prosecute to ruine or fruition.
Only my Fulvia doe but thou molest
My foes at home by opposite authority.
There's Lucius Piso, Lucius, Philippus,
Fusius Calenus, Salvius, Lucius Cæsar,
Servius Sulpitius too, and many others
My speciall friends: thou maist solicit them,
They'l not be backward in my glorious cause.
Come I'l goe kisse the pledges of our bed,
And then for Mutine; there my hopes are fed.
Exeunt.
Is there such sweetnesse in dominion?
Or is it only fond opinion?
Is there such pleasure in the height
Of greatnesse? or is't meer conceit?
Sure if the glories of a throne
Were in their proper colours shown,
It would appear the highest place
Is pleasant only in the face;
A King is but a Royall slave,
And Rule a Vassallage more brave;
A Scepter's but a glorious name,
A Crown the burden of the same
Proud front which it adorns; but Peace
And stedfast joy with full increase
Salute the cottage of the Swaine;
There Quiet harbours, where Disdaine
Doth fix a scornfull brow, but where
The eye of Envy's feasted, there
A thousand discontents dor dwell,
O 'tis a second second Hell.
Why then, O why distressed Rome,
Doe thy Vipers rend thy wombe,
To be possessors of a light
So prejudiciall to the sight?
Unhappy Rome, did Julius die
For affected Tyranny?
And must Antonius inherit
The aimes of his Ambitious spirit?
Yet in this thrice happy State,
That thou hast an Advocate
Dares plead thy Griefs, and to his face
Tell thy proud Enemie be is base,
Base in his life, and base to thee,
An hater of thy liberty.
O bug so rare a Stalists worth,
Let thy Matrons Caroll forth
His praise, and crown his aged haires:
Not with Laurell wreaths, but prayers.
Long maist thou live brave man, & have
When dead a soft and peacefull grave!
| Marcus Tullius Cicero | |