University of Virginia Library

Actus secundus.

Cicero.
So now methinks I see our common Foe
Already crusht with ruine; he shall know
Ambition is a precipice, and the sky
At which he aimes his shafts to be too high.
Were it the cause though 'twere ground enough
To build a setled confidence upon.
Air honest cause in mouth of ruine sings,
'Tis the good genius of a State, and brings
Down Jove himselfe to side with her: but more
'Tis Brutus whom Antonius copes with, Brutus
The Omen of whose very name, and bloud
Fatall to State-usurpers were sufficient
To fortifie our drooping souls, and raise them
From thought of servitude. But then besides;
Three Armies have we sent to succour him;
Two under Aulus Hirtius, and Pansa,
Our late elected Consulls. Young Octavius
Have we made Generall of the third; A youth
Ordain'd by Heaven to doe his Countrey good.
And yet before this war was brought about,
What oppositions did I meet withall.
Piso withstands it, Salvius seconds him,
The Consular Calenus makes a third.
The matter is adjourn'd. Till at the last
Ambassadours must be sent to Antony
To treat of Peace; A thing, in my conceit,
Of little credit to the Senatours;
For what could bee more base, more full of levity
Then to send messengers of Peace to him
Whom, but a little before they had condemn'd
As enemy to's Countrey, and Republick,
By severall decrees, as Cæsars Honors,
The great Rewards of th'Legions that forsook him,
Th'Assignment of the Consuls to the wars?
As also their most ample commendations
Of Brutus and his Army, which the Province
Of Gaul did plainly intimate: moreover
There was great danger in't; for could the City
Be safe, when it should Antony immure,
Or rather Antonies within her bosome,
Which like a nest of Serpents would torment her,
And never cease to stab with banefull stings
Till they had wrought a passage to the heart?
Lastly, it was not possible there should
Be peace confirm'd with him, for not the Senate
Nor Citizens could affect him, nor he them,
Both had condemn'd him, he injur'd both.
Well, Legates are dispatcht; yet nothing done;
Antony is still as insolent as ever:
Then must a second Embassie be enter'd;
And I am one elected for that service.
O Heavens! with what distempered wounded eyes
Should I have lookt that Monster in the face?
Who in a publick Concion had decreed
My goods unto Petissius of Urbin,
One who but newly from the utter shipwrack
Of a no mean but rich inheritance
Was crept to those Antonian rocks for shelter?
My tender eye-balls never could have born
The hated sight of Saxo, Capho, Bistia,
Hostilius and Vesenius. O I should
Have seen the very visage and aspect
Of Civill war it selfe. But this Legation
Was found at length a meer device and trick
To hinder with delays the Senates care
In preparation for the war. Yet see
A new demur obtruded; M. Lepidus
Our Generall beyond the Alps, cohorts
The Senate by Ambassadors to th'peace;
Hereat the former Advocates take heart,
And plead th'authority of Lepidus,
As if that plea could quench the zealous flames
Which were then kindled in the Senates brests.
But all in vain. Our armies are launcht forth
'Gainst that Arch-pirate of the State Antonius.
And now we daily with our prayers solicite
The ears of heaven to free the Common-wealth
Of such a dangerous and infectious plague,
Which like a gangrene would run on and spread
To the destruction of the body Politick:
But to strike down such monsters Jove has thunder,
And wee have armes to presse this viper under.

Exit
Enter Pomponia.
Pomp.
Phillis come hither.

Phil.
Madame.

Pomp.
Are the Roomes
Perfum'd as I commanded?

Phil.
Yes.

Pomp.
And all things
Done as I gave directions?

Phil.
All things Madam.

Pomp.
Well.
Exit Phil.
But I need not be so punctuall,
My Brother Marcus, as he is no stranger,
So not so curious, as our other Romans.
As for my selfe, I'm none of those which waste
Whole Mornings in the fruitlesse contemplation
Of their supposed beauties in a glasse;
I have not learn'd to paint and daub my face
With borrow'd colours, mine's a native grace,
And, if it please my Quintus, 'tis enough.
Nor am I in the list of those which spend
Their husbands faculties on loose attires,
On rings, and bracelets, or a glittering toy
To dangle in my eare, my Ornaments
And Jewells are the Vertues of my Quintus.

Enter Philologus.
Phil.
Madam, my Lord your Brother's newly enter'd.

Exit Pomponia, Manet Phil.
Enter Laureas and Tyro.
Laur.
Here's a triplicity of Libertines!
How does my little Phil?

Phil.
O Sir the better
To see your Stoickship in health: but, Sirrah,
What is yon Tyro doing?

Laur.
Ha! let's see.
Why, poring on a fragment of Heradotus
The Grandfire (as he calls him) of Historians
A kind of vermine he's enamour'd with:
And he himself has got an itching humour
To be of that fraternity.

Phil.
I'faith!
Nay then we'l furnish him. Most learned Tyro
Have you not heard the news?

Tyro.
Ha. News? What news?

Phil.
Why tis reported, and that credibly,
How Atlas being weary of his burden,
As sure he well may be, and if you ever
Beheld his picture with that mighty globe
Upon his back, hee looks but sowrely ou't:
Well, Atlas being weary as I told you,
To ease his shoulders, lifted up his arme,
Some say it was his right arm, some his left,
But that's not so materiall; you observe!
Lifting his arm above his head to keep
The Sphear a while from's back, he chanc't to thrust
His thumb into a star, and burnt it off.

Laur.
Tyro, he's missinform'd; 'twas thus old boy.
About the time when the all-seeing Sun
Mounted the raging Lions back, this Atlas,
This living Columne of the arched Heavens,
Distilling from his hot and sweating brows
As much Salt waters as might turn a Sea
Fresh as our Tiber, to a brinish sowrnesse.
And truly, were that scorching season constant,
Well might the Nation of Philosophers
Cease their intestine broiles about the saltnesse
Of the vast Ocean, and determine safely
The sweat of Atlas were the genuine cause.
Well Atlas sweltring, as I said, and sending
Whole clouds of vapours from his boiling entrails,
Erects his brawny arme, and so sustaines
That azure fabrick, while he stoopes to reach
A draught or two of Nilus in his palme;
But as he stoops, he thus behind him throws
His leg, and by ill fortune popt his foot
Into the hot Trinacrian hill; and so
(O sad dystaster!) burnt his little toe.

Ty.
I thought your Mount at length would be deliver'd
Of a ridiculous Mouse. But what's this all?

Phil.
I, here's enough at once, too much wil glut you.

Tyro.
Glut me! by Castor I'm as lank and thin
As if Chamæleon-like I had been fed
Of nought but Aire. This have I only chew'd on
Since (to usurp Laureas inspired Notion)
The Sun lashe up his fiery Teem from the
Blushing Ocean.

Laur.
How the Rogue hobbles! 'slight he makes the Muses
Halt, and their God Apollo goe on crutches.

Phil.
No matter Laureas, you must attribute it
To th'faintnesse of his stomach, which I'l quicken
With some supply. Stay here, while I goe in,
And if I meet with an extravagant Capon,
Or some such Pilgrim, I'l direct him hither.

Laur.
Well said; but Sirrah, you know what I love,
A cup of rich Falern, you Rogue, or some
Extracted Nectar of the Formian grape.

Phil.
Ile furnish you immediately.

Exit.
Laur.
I wonder
What foolish humour Pindarus was in,
When he begun his Poems with the praise
Of that weak Element Water: 'slight blind Homer
Was an old Soker at it, and the Father
Of our brave Roman Laureats Ennius,
Before he dipt his sacred quill in bloud,
Would steep his braines in this Castalian liquor;
Drencht in this juice he could more proudly look
Bellona in the face, then ere Achilles
Dipt by his Mother in the Stygian lake.

Enter Philologus.
Laur.
So soone Philologus?

Tyro.
What's here?

Phil.
Why, Tyro,
The remnant of a martyr'd quarter'd Goose.

Tyro.
I thought introth this would be one of your
Extravagant pilgrims; for it is reported,
That Geese have travail'd on their feet to Rome
Ev'n from the Marishes of the Morini.
What bird is this? 'tis a young Goose I warrant.

Laur.
How, a young Goose?

Phil.
He's one that said so rather.

Tyro.
No Rogue, Ile leave that title to Philosophers,
With whom the Geese are so enamoured.
For I have read in story of one Lacydes,
Of your bald tribe affected by a Goose,
With such an ardent zeal; that day and night
Abroad, at home, at board, and in his bed,
She would be with him: and I am perswaded
There are but few of that profession
Can leap a Span from Goose.

Laur.
The Rogue's Satyricall.

Tyro.
Nay there are Poets too of this Affinity.
Know you not Anser, he who sings the praise
Of Antony in verse?

Laur.
And witty too.

Phil.
But 'tis a Partridge Tyro.

Tyro.
Ha! a Partridge.

Laur.
Come leave this prattle, he will tell you now
How Mulciber the Ferrian Prince was Hawking,
And a poor Partridge, such a one as this,
Mewted in's mouth, only for sincere dread
Of the pursuing Hawk: but you young Rascall
Here's that has life in't.

Phil.
Come.

Drinks to Philolog.
Phil.
Historicall Tyro.

Drinks to Tyro, Tyro takes it.
Tyro.
What's this?

Laur.
'Tis wine, pure wine.

Tyro.
But Romulus
The Father of this City knew not wine,
Milke was his drinke.

Laur.
That was in Romes infancy,
Come drink you Coxcombe.

Tyro.
Ha, methinks it smiles
Like an ungirdled Maiden.

Laur.
Are you there?

Phil.
I see these scribling. Fablers are fly creatures

Laur.
There's my Lords biting Mastix Salust, last
Was found at th'sport.

Phil.
I, and I think belabour'd
To th'purpose for his paines.

Tyr.
'Tis something pleasant.
'Twere good this Vacuum were again replenisht.

Laur.
Come, come let's fall aboard.

They eat.
Tyro.
I see you Rascals, you are no Pythagoreans.

Phil.
Why Tyro? w'are as still as they.

Tyro.
'Tis true.
But they t'enure themselves to abstinence
Would cause a Table to be richly furnisht
With costly viands, and then sit them downe
To feast their eyes upon the severall dishes,
But not to tast a bit, for when their mouths
Had watred long o'r the inticing dainties,
A waiter was commanded to remove,
And so with empty stomachs all departed.

Laur.
A fine device to make a living Ghost on.
But Tyro, Here boy.
Drinks.
Wine, why 'tis the Soul
Of History; me thinks in this small glasse
I see a Volume of brave Heroes Acts
In Letters capitall: here I read the Trophies
Of Bacchus fetcht from the remotest India;
Here I peruse the battail of such fame,
Between the Centaures and the Lapathites,
The sack of Troy, and many other things
As well recorded in this fluid Monument,
As in the strongest Adamantine tables.

Tyro.
I may in time make use of this sweet doctrine

Enter Marcus Cicero, Quintus Cicero, Quintus jun.
Laur.
My Lord by Phœbus.

Mar.
So, so, I perceive
You have been at it, 'tis well done, but Tyro
What news from Mutine? you were ever wont
To be inquisitive.

Tyr.
None but this my Lord:
'Tis for a truth given out, that Decimus
From the besieged Town convey'd a Letter
To th'Army of the Consulls by a Kestrell.

Mar.
How weak alas, to what small purpose tend
The plots of State-usurpers in the end?
How are Antonius projects crost? he thought
With scouts and trenches to cut off intelligence
Between the Consulls and the Town, and spread
Nets o'r the surface of the neighbouring river,
Lest the swift waves should carry Brutus counsels.
But all in vain, if through the yeelding Aire
A winged post his embassie may beare.

Enter Pomponia.
Pomp.
Alas, my Lord, the Town is full of uprores,
Some cry out Antony, some, Wee are undone;
Some, Marcus Brutus must be called home.

Mar.
Tyro, Go see whence springs this sad confusion.

Exit. Tyro.
Pomp.
Some answer it is now too late, and others
Affirm it were best to fly to him for succour.
There's not a throat but hoarse with cries; An eye
But drown'd in flouds of tears. The cause I know not.
But yet I feare.

Mar.
If Antony have won the day (which heaven
And heavens all-seeing Monarch Jove forbid)
Wee are undone, there is no hope of succour
Except in Brutus, which must be attain'd
Not by his coming, but our flight to him,
Unlesse the common voice mistakes; and danger
Be not so nigh our dores, as it infers.
But yet my soule is quiet, which was ever
Wont to anticipate the common ills
In her oraculous auguries.

Ent. Tyr.
Tyro.
My Lord,
There is a rumour spread throughout the City
That Antony has overthrown the Consulls,
And is now coming with his Troopes to Rome.

Quint.
Great Jove defend us.

Marc.
Heaven avert this evill.

Tyr.
And the Antonians within the City
Are flockt together into Pompeys court.

Mar.
No doubt to broach some mischief 'gainst the State.

Tyro.
My Lord 'tis broacht already; for ther's rais'd
Another bruit without all doubt by those
Pernicious Citizens, only to divert
The concourse of the people from your Lordship,
That on the Ides of Aprill you've determin'd
T'usurp the Fasces.

Cic.
Sure thou art deceiv'd,
'Tis meant some Ambitious thief, or sword-player,
Or some new minted Catiline.

Tyr.
No my Lord;
You are the man.

Mar.
O Heavens, that I who ruin'd
The Counsells of base Catiline, should now
Turne Catiline my selfe! is any man
So lost, so wicked to raise this of me?
So rash, so furious to beleeve it? Heavens!
Enter Publius Apuleius.
Alas good Tribune, how is Cicero wrong'd?

Apul.
I know you are, and therefore in a Concion
Before the poople have I urg'd your innocence,
And partly choakt the rumour. I propos'd
All your endeavours for the Publick State
Before their censures, and the whole Assembly
Pronounc't they never yet could find you guilty
So much as of a thought against the welfare,
Of the Republick: but what noise is this?

Qu.
Hark, the late cries are turn'd to shouts me thinks.

Quin. jun.
I hear a cry of Victory in the streets.

Marc.
Tyro, Go see again, my heart presages
Some sudden good.

Ex. Tyr.
Pomp.
Hark, hark, the noise increases.

Quint.
I, and approaches neerer too me thinks.

Apul.
'Tis at the dores.

Enter Tyro and a Messenger.
A shout.
Tyro.
Here's one my Lord can tell you.

Mess.
The Consuls (worthy Sir) have won the day.
These will inform you better.

Letters.
Cicero reads.
Marc.
Brother Quintus
A word or two in private. Antony
Is put to flight, but Hirtius flain, and Pansa
Dangerously wounded; for some private reasons
Best known unto my selfe, I will conceale
The Consulls death, which I may doe compleatly,
For here's a Letter sent from Hirtius
Unto the Senate of a former victory:
This will remove suspect.

Shout.
Tyro.
The Roman people
Wait at the dore to bring you to the Capitoll.

Mar.
Thanks to the Gods, this day wee'l dedicate
To Jove and Mars the savers of our State.

Exeunt.
Laur.
Nay Madam stay, I feel an extasie
Steal through my brest, and fire my plyant soul,
You shall not goe without a Hymn of Victory.

Pomp.
Phillis, Clarinda, Galla, quickly come,
Laureas begin, and these shall sing the Chorus.

The Song.
Laur.
Have you not heard the Cities cry,
How the people vent their joyes
In the welcome welcome noyse
Of victory?
The Capitoll returnes their shout againe,
As if it selfe would learn their joyfull straine.

Chorus.
Let Echo sing with long-spun notes,
And Philmels caroll from their lubrick throats;
Let Hills rebound,
And vallies sound
Io triumphe.

Laur.
The streets are fill'd with cheerfull glee,
And the common mirth is showne
In the pleasant pleasant tone
Of Liberty;
For now our Consuls have delivered Rome,
And the disturber of her peace o'rcome.

Chorus.
Let Echo sing with, &c,

Laur.
Great Jove we blesse thy Patronage;
By whose high auspice Rome is sav'd
The Roman State, and kept unslav'd
Frominbred rage.
And Mars we praise thee, by whose aid have stood
The Roman walls so long, though built in blood.

Chorus.
Let Echo sing with long-spun notes,
And Philmells caroll from their lubrick throats;
Let Hills rebound,
And vallies sound
Io triumphe.

Exeunt.
Enter Senate. A shout.
Cicer.
Honor'd and Conscript Fathers, if those days
Appear to us with far more welcome raies
Wherein we are preserv'd, then those wherein
To breath this common Aire we first begin,
Because our safeties have a sure fruition
Of gladnesse, but our births a frail condition,
And that we doe our safeties entertain
With pleasure, but Nativities with pain:
How ought, we then t'embrace this happy light
Which has redeem'd us from that sad affright
Rais'd by domestick furies? yet we will not
Return unto our civill robes, till tidings
Be brought of Brutus safety, for this warre
Was undertaken for his aid and succour,
Against those enemies of the State, and is not
Compleat but with his freedome first recover'd.

Servilius.
Although I am not Cicero of your mind
Concerning the retaining of this robe
Of war, yet I determine publick prayer
Be made to all the Gods for twenty dayes
In the three Generalls names.

Cic.
Which twenty dayes
Publius Servilius I inhance to fifty,
Since they are granted not to one but Three.

Piso.
But, M. Tullius, my opinion is
This day to put our civill garments on,
And to resume the Sage again to morrow.

Calenus.
And 'tis my judgment too.

Cic.
Yes, 'twould be gratefull
To the immortall Deities to depart
To put the Sage on from their hallowed Altars
To which we came aray'd in civill robes?
'T were most enormous, and against Religion.

Calen.
Then Cicero your terms are too too harsh.
You brand them with the name of Enemies;
'Tis too severe a style. We will allow them
To be call'd wicked and audacious Citizens,
But not their Countreys foes; and for this cause
The Consulls Hirtius, Pansa, with Octavius
Are not to be entituled Generalls.

Cic.

Exeunt omnes. A shout.
Chorus.