Marcus Tullius Cicero The Tragedy of that Famous Roman Oratovr Marcus Tullius Cicero |
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 | Marcus Tullius Cicero |  |
Actus Quartus.
M. T. Cicero.Now we are past recovery, lost for ever.
Our new-made Consul, made indeed, but not
Elected, for Election is an Act
Of Will not Voice, of an internall suffrage,
Not outward sound; this Consul, whom our fears,
Not our Consents or Votes have dignified,
Hangs o're us like a full and pregnant cloud
Ready to pour a tempest on our heads.
Our forced hands delivered him the Axe
To punish State-maligners, but alas
He whets it for the necks of our preservers.
I, only I am blam'd: ungratefull City;
They are not Cæsars honors which afflict us,
But his new-entered friendship with Antonius,
Which was the only rock my best endeavours
Were ever prest t'avoid, lest the Republike
Should suffer wrack upon't. I thought the way
To keep him distant with Antonius,
Was to advance him to a requisite power
Of opposition: 'las we but conjecture
And guesse at the events of things; our knowledg
Cannot arrive to an infallible certainty
Of the successe of matters; 'tis a priviledge
Peculiar only to the Gods, and is
Deriv'd to us, weak mortalls, not by nature,
But extraordinary participation.
Since therefore 'tis th'unknown event alone,
Not the perversnesse of my soul, which crosses
The seeming good appearing in my counsells,
Why am I made the mark of accusation?
But tis the custome of the times, I will not
Deject my self for this; the innocence
Which I am arm'd with is enough to raise me
From such servility, but yet I'm griev'd
For the sure ruine of my countreys freedome,
For my Dear Brutus, and the Noble Cassius.
The other Consul Quintus Pedius
Has publisht a decree wherein they're sentenc'd
With interdiction of Fire and Water.
Of Fire and Water! can they then constrain
The fountains of our eyes to cease their course?
Brutus shall have these waters, till we have wept
Their currents dry; and then our hearts shall send
Whole clouds of vapouring sighs to feed new showrs.
But as for fire, they want it not; their brests
Cherish the flame of an unmoved zeal
Unto their countreys liberty, which cannot
Be quencht but with their blood; this Cæsar knows,
And therefore that he may with doubled power
Oppresse the heroick bravery of their spirits,
Has reconcil'd Antonius and Lepidus,
Those two pernicious monsters with the Senate,
And now he is return'd again toward Mutine,
No doubt to join with those two plagues, and there
Contrive the ruine of the Common-wealth.
For State- usurpers think of nought but blood,
When they consult tis to devour the good.
Enter Q. Cicero.
Quint.
Brother, How dost?
Mar.
Thinkst my beloved Quintus
I can be healthfull when the State's diseas'd
Whereof I am a Member?
Quint.
'Las tis true,
Too true; the Common-wealth's diseas'd indeed,
Sick at the heart, faints, can no longer stand,
Lies bedrid, and like fierce Procrustes guests
Must be distended or abbreviated
To th'pleasure of her Lord the worst of theeves;
For Cæsar, Antony, and Lepidus,
Are met together not far off from Mutine,
And in an Island round environed
With a smal river, without any company,
Are as I hear consulting.
Marc.
What a Hell
Like Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamanth,
Sit on the life and death of her best States-men?
Quint.
Tis to be fear'd indeed they will play Sylla's.
But who can help it? if the Gods will throw
Destruction on us, we must not complain,
For they're above us, and it were but vain,
For who can alter the decrees of fate?
Alas we are but mortall, and the State
Of this lifes pilgrimage is full of woe,
Better die once delivered with one blow,
And in ones countreys cause, then living dy
Wounded with sight of bloody Tyranny.
Marc.
Now Quintus speakes like his own virtuous self,
This language melts me into fire and aire;
I am sublim'd, and ready to take flight
In extasie from this unwieldy lump;
Come, let's retire into my garden; there
Proceed in this divine discourse, 'twill make
My soul disdaine with Earthly mould comply,
And raise her thoughts to immortality.
Exeunt.
Enter Cæsar Solus.
How full of fate and horrour is this morning?
She comes not tripping on the mountains tops,
But moves with drooping pace, and leaden heels,
Her eye-lids are not rosy, nor her brow
Gilded with that sweet beauty it was wont;
What has she changed colours with her Memnon?
Or is she sick, and so has bound her head,
In this black vail of clouds? Alas, alas,
Tis lest her eyes behold our blacker deeds.
My self, Antonius, and Lepidus
Have, like the three Saturnian brothers once,
Amongst us shar'd the Roman world, as if
It were our own inheritance, and now
We must complot a Tragedy; the Proscripts
Must be culled out; shall Cicero then dy?
Alas, how piety struggles in my brest.
This mouth, this tongue which now must speak his death,
Was wont to call him Father; shall I then
Become a Paricide? Suppose I doe;
He that aspires to govern without check,
Must set his foot upon his fathers neck.
It is a maxime long since practised
By Jove himself upon his father Saturne.
But words oblige not to a naturall duty.
I did but call him Father; and if now
I yeeld consent unto his death, I doe it
As he is Marcus Cicero, a stranger
To Cæsars blood. But Cato thought him worthy
The honor'd title of his Countreys Parent.
And shall Octavius ruine so great worth?
Be still my melting passions: He must die,
And therefore 'cause he is his Countreys parent,
He that is Cæsars friend must be a foe
Unto his countreys freedome, which he prizes
Above his life, and for this cause must lose it.
Shall he then die? Ambition sayes he must.
But piety forbids; but Piety
Must not be sided with Ambition.
It must be so. Antonius shall have Cicero,
Antonius then shall give me Lucius Cæsar,
And Lepidus shall yeeld his brother Paulus.
Ambition thus must thought of pity smother
Even toward a Father, Unkle, or a Brother.
Exit.
Enter Laureas.
Heavens! What a dismall time is this? the dogs
As if they were transformed into wolves,
Gather together, and doe nought but howle;
And wolves as if they were changed into dogs,
Have left the woods and traverse through the streets.
A Bull was heard send forth a humane voice,
An infant newly born to speak; A showre
Of stones descended from the troubled skies;
And in the aire was heard the cries of men,
Clashing of armour, and a noise of Horses,
Shrill trumpets sounds; the statues of the Gods
Swet drops of bloud, and some were toucht from heaven,
Many of th'Temples too are Thunder struck.
Enter Tyro.
Tyro were ever known such Tragedies?
Tyro.
Never was imminent calamity
Threatened to Rome, but 'twas thus ushered, Laureas.
I might alledge the wretched fall of Crassus,
When such a purple floud of Roman gore
Discoloured Lucans field.
But the not yet cur'd dire Pharsalian blow
Shall speak for all. Rome scarce ere knew a prodigie
Which was not prævious to that bloudy day,
The Sun and Moon eclipst, Ætnean flames
Obliquely darted on th'Italian shore,
The Vestall fire extinct, the Native gods
Weeping; State-changing comets, monstrous births,
The grones of Ghosts from out their troubled Vrnes,
With many more.
Laur.
But the Hetruscian Soothsayers
Will descant better on these things then we.
Tyro.
'Slight thou saist true, and now I think on't La.
Wee'l try if we can search what they determine,
Sure they have done by this their immolations.
Exeunt.
Enter Senate and Soothsayers.
Cicero.
You the most Reverend of Hetruscian Vates,
To whom is known the births and deaths of States,
You who by art unlock the Pole, to whom
Is made apparent fates intended doom
A hairy star or some such boding wonder,
Inform us what the angry destinies,
Threaten in these portentous prodigies,
But be not Ænigmaticall, nor shroud
Your Speeches in a dark mysterious cloud,
As did the Sibylls and the Delphick Nun,
Let your inspired Numbers evenly run
With obvious and unfolded sense, that so
We may conceive the essence of our woe.
The Ancientest of the Soothsayers.
Then fathers, hear your dismall fate,
Your freedome shall be lost, your state
Converted to a Monarchy,
And all be slaves but only I
Sen.
What means the Aged Prophet?
Stops his breath, and falls down dead.
Cicer.
Fallen down?
Is it some powerfull extasie or death?
Second Soothsayer.
Our brother from his clay is flowne,
And seal'd your destiny with his own.
Thrice happy he, that now is blest
With a true Elysian rest,
And shall not see the tide of woe
Which on Survivers heads will flow.
The third.
Like our brothers Vitall thread
Who now lies before us dead,
Your twine of liberty is broke,
And Romans must expect the yoke.
The fourth.
What the destinies have made
A firm decree, and he hath said,
No humane power can disanull,
Tis signed in your speaking bull.
The fift.
When Romulus first founded Rome,
He fixt his Crowne by Remus doome,
And built his Monarchy in bloud;
Now shall return that antique power
Not re-establisht with a shower
Of that salt humour, but a floud.
Cic.
Well, what the fates have destin'd, humane power
Is not of strength to cancell; if I dye,
(As sure my bloud must help to make the stream)
I will dye willingly; 'tis a noble death
Not to survive ones countreys liberty:
If Gods might tast of death, then would they die.
The Soothsayers over the dead corpes sing this Song.
1 Brother, 2 Brother, 3 Brother, 4 Brother,
1.
Art thou dead?
2.
Art thou fled?
3.
Art thou gone,
4.
All alone?
1.
To the shades below,
2.
To the desert cells,
3.
Where glooing darknesse dwells,
4.
And cloudy woe;
1.
Where ne'r was knowne;
2.
A cheerfull tone,
3.
Where wretched Souls
4.
Like Stygian owles,
Together.
Have no joy of one another?
1 Brother, 2 Brother, 3 Brother, 4 Brother.
1.
Thou art dead;
2.
Thou art fled,
3.
Thou art gone
4.
All alone,
1.
To the groves below,
2.
Where sacred Quires
3.
Inspir'd with holy fires
4.
In triumph goe,
1.
Where songs of mirth
2.
Are caroll'd forth,
3.
Where blessed Souls,
4.
In Nectar bowles,
Together.
Drink and solace one another.
Exeunt with the carkasse.
Enter Cicero reading.
O Vitam vere vitalem! sed beatam etiam mortem, alla a
be atissimam vitam aditum aperiat!
Returning to a former aiery being,
No one part of us free from dissolution,
Death were a plague, and did not harbour in it
The sweetnesse which they talk of; for I think
To be, is better, though in restlesse troubles,
Then not to be at all; 'twere senselesse, impious
Infus'd into us such a love of Union
In this compounded frame; without some blessing
In the continuance; but a meer cessation,
A sinking into nothing, though it pains not,
Yet 'tis no blessing, nor can properly
Be said to take our cares and sorrows from us,
Or us from them, but rather and more truly
Us from our selves. I cannot think the Gods
Were so unkind, so sparing of their blessings,
Or feebly stor'd, as to bestow a Nothing
On the two pious sons of Argia,
On Agamedes and Trophonius;
For, pray, what goodnesse can be coucht in that
Which cancells being, that is one with goodnesse?
But doe we live then? can I think the soul
Survives, when in an urnes forgetfull chest
The mournfull treasure of our Ashes rest?
See how my panting struggling soul contends
To harbour the belief! Alas, me thinks
Tis no small argument to ground our hopes on,
To see how sweetly good men entertain
The weakest motion for a future life;
To see them, how even shaking hands with death,
They are more sprightly and repleat with vigour,
Yea oftentimes oraculous, as if
Something lay cag'd within that was not mortall,
But were new-rapt with joy of better state,
And even then seizing on Divinitie,
When wicked men are full of discontents;
Tortur'd with furies, which their consciences
Present them in the ugliest shapes: is't fancy?
Or is't a feare their sullyed names will stink
In th'nostrills of posterity? 'tis neither.
For if the first; why then are not the good
Subject to th'same commotions, whose diseases
And bodily distempers are the same?
But if the second; then might they be free
To whose enormous actions darknesse only
And secret Angels have been conscious;
Therefore by this it seems that Tityus vultur,
Ixions wheel, and the Tantalian fruits
Are not meer bug-bears; but some mystick Emblemes
Of the succeeding pains of guilty souls.
Thus have I argued, yea and partly satisfied
My own weak reason. Yet our great Philosophers
In the discussing of this weighty matter,
Fare much like naked men in stony fields,
They can with ease beat down anothers reasons,
But cannot save their own, alas, from falling;
They can offend a wise Antagonist
Weaken his grounds, but not defend themselves.
Whither, alas, shall our endeavours tend,
When we are blind in knowledg of our end?
Enter Laureas.
Laur.
My Lord, there's one without would speak with you
From the Triumvirs.
Cic.
The Triumvirs Laureas?
Laur.
Yes, so he sayes.
Cic.
O from Antonius,
Cæsar and Lepidus. Send for Quint. to me,
For Salvius, Otho, Publius Apuleius,
And other of my friends, you know.
Lau.
I fly.
Cic.
But charge none enter till they hear from me.
From the Triumvirs? have they then usurpt
Ex. Lau.
A new-coyn'd office? what will now become
Of those that have the old ones? what! why have
Their Reverend heads struck off like Tarquins poppie.
Enter Quintus Cicero.
Marc.
Brother, how is it you are here so soon,
Since 'tis but now I sent to intreat your company?
Quint.
A Brother should not stay till he be sent for,
When he suspects his presence will be usefull;
I had some doubtfull notice of this messenger
Which now within waits for admittance.
Mar.
Quintus,
How I am blest in such a carefull brother!
Thus when the Argive King was vext with doubts,
And call'd a councell of the Græcian Peers,
Only his brother Menelaus came.
Of his own free accord.
Quint.
It should be so,
Why had we else one father, why one mother,
If not to live like brothers?
Mar.
True, good Quintus,
I could even weep to see this piety
Flow so divinely from thee, now if ever
Our states require our mutuall aids and counsells.
But what dost think this messenger may bring?
Quint.
No good I warrant you, perhaps our deaths.
Can we expect from those three Roman furies
A milder sentence?
Mar.
Why, I will embrace it.
Father and Ruler of the lofty sky,
What way thou pleasest lead, and grant that I
May follow with no sad or grieved blood,
Nor like an ill man bear what fits a good.
Enter Salvius, Apuleius, and other friends of Cicero.
Mar.
Friends, you are welcome. You shall hear anon
Why you were sent for. Now call in the Messenger.
Mess.
I cannot, Sir, say Health unto your Lordship,
Untill your self confirm it, which you may
As will appear by this,
(Delivers a Letter.)
Nay good my Lord,
Give these the hearing of it, for the affair
May crave their judgments.
Mar.
Then you know it.
Mess.
Partly.
Mar.
Read you it Quintus.
Quint.
No, my mouth shall never
Speak my own Brothers sentence,
Marc.
This is fond.
Quint.
Pray heaven it prove so.
Marc.
Will you read it Salvius?
Salv.
You must excuse me Cicero.
Cic.
Say you so?
Then Apuleius you must be the Man.
Apul.
Sir, by no means, if your own brother dare not;
Pray pardon me.
Cic.
Indeed! then read it you.
1 Friend.
Not I my Lord,
2
Nor I,
3
Nor I,
4
Nor I.
Marc.
Then Marcus Tullius sit thee down and read,
No doubt, thine own proscription.
Omnes.
Heavens defend!
(Cic. Reads.)
M. Antonius Imperator, Augur, Triumvir,
to M. Tullius Cicero, Consular,
Greeting.
Wee the Triumviri M. Antonius, M. Lepidus, and
Octavius Cæsar (Ventidius being chosen Consul in his
roome)
Mar.
Ventidius Consul in Octavius room,
And he Triumvir? this afflicts my soul.
(Reads.)
Cic.
are for the space of five whole yeers appointed with full and
absolute authority for the re-establishment of the Common-wealth;
and you Cicero are now in my hands; yet have I so
mitigated my just conceived indignation toward you, that
if you will but burn your Orations which you call your Philippicks,
compiled only out of malice and rancour against
me, you shall live; otherwise—
Yours, if perversnesse make you not your own foe.
Mar.
You shall be soon informed which way I am
resolv'd to take.
Mess.
Ile waite your Lordships pleasure.
Exit.
Mar.
Friends, here you see the slender twine whereon
My aged life depends.
Salv.
Too true my Lord.
Marc.
Your counsell brother.
Quint.
Mine is resolute.
Marc.
The better, let me hear it.
Quin.
This it is;—
Defie him.
Salv.
Hold, I hope you will not, Quint.
Be your own brothers heads-man, that but now
Could not be won so much as read the Letter,
Lest you should speak his sentence.
Apul.
Good my Lord,
Preserve your self for better times; the State
Will lose its soule, when tis depriv'd of you.
Salv.
Twill be a breathlesse trunk, a livelesse carkasse,
When you are gone; which were the only blood
And sinews of her liberty.
1 Friend.
Alas!
We shall be prey'd upon by ravenous Vultures,
And those insulting Eagles of Ambition.
2 Friend.
Think but of this when Catilines arise,
Where shall we find new Cicero's to oppose them?
3 Friend.
Where shall opprest and wronged Citizens
Find upright Patrons, that will stick to justice,
Not fearing to incur a great ones frown?
They may as soon climb up to heaven, and bring
Astræa down again; unhappy Rome!
Quint.
I do confesse good friends the common-wealth
Will misse a Cicero; and that my brother,
If we respect the wishes of the people,
And wants of the Republick, has not yet
Liv'd half of half his time; but if we cast
A backward eye upon his glorious actions,
Has liv'd a goodly age, and cannot now
Die immaturely. Look upon the state
Of present things, the downfall of our liberty,
(And heaven knows what calamities will follow)
I think you cannot be so much his foe,
As not to say, he has now liv'd too long.
Apul.
Ah! but the publick good's to be preferr'd
Before respects of private consequence.
Quint.
But Publius, the State is now so wounded
That there's no hope of cure, and therefore may
Our old Physitians safely give it o're;
Were he an Æsculapius that could put
New life into a State, as once that son
Of Pæan did to Virbius; I should then
Blaspheme Great Jove himself, should he but aim
His triforkt flames against him; but for one
Now sinking of himself into his grave,
And such a one as Cicero, in these times,
When such mens ages are but vain, what sepulcher
Can be more fit, more glorious then the same
Wherein his countreys freedome lies enclos'd?
If he now die, hee shall be buried
With the renowned Pompeys, son and father;
With Catulus, Petreius, and Afranius,
Yea with Antonius that brave man, unworthy
His noble stock should bear so foul a branch.
But if he live, with whom I pray wilt be
But Capho's, Saxa's, and Ventidii?
Therefore good brother, (I confesse my eyes
Doe swim with tears, yet shall my words proceed
From a couragious mind) be still thy selfe;
To the huge volume of Antonius faults
Adde one crime more, even Cicero's death; 'twill stick
Then the most hainous of his other villanies.
For should his future deeds pronounce him parallel
To the great Alexander or Alcmena's son,
From whom he fetches his vain pedigree;
Should after ages wonder at his Acts,
And say, why this, and this, and this he did,
Built such a City, conquer'd such a Countrey,
Thus and thus many rimes triumpht, with Kings
And Queens to follow his victorious chariot;
Yet, for a period to each glorious sentence,
Some honest stander by will sighing say
But he kill'd Cicero; Cicero shall still
Much like Prometheus Vulture read and tear
The very heart and liver of his name.
Let Antony proscribe thee, let him Marcus,
Why, he can do't but once, and that's some comfort;
But thou shalt proscribe him unto eternity;
It is not thy proscription he remits,
But closely sues a pardon for his own.
Beleeve me Marcus, 'tis the meanest part
Which can be given, or taken from thee; that,
That's the true Cicero which Antonius knows
Cannot be proscrib'd but by Cicero.
If Antony deceive, and break his faith,
(As faith is seldome found in such as hee)
Then thou must die. Suppose he doe perform it;
Then must you live a vassall to his tyranny;
Now which is to be chosen, death or servitude,
I leave it to your self, and your own judgment.
Yet my beloved Brother, by our Loves,
By thy now well-spent three and sixty years;
By thy renowned Consulship, the sacred
And (if thou wilt) the everlasting memory
Of thy admired Eloquence, by these
And all that's dear unto thee, I adjure thee
Die not confessing that thou wouldst not die.
Mar.
Friends, I am bound unto your cares, & thank you
That not affection only, which were fond,
But the Republicks good, has been the motive
Of your perswasions. Well; I promise you
I will doe nothing unbeseeming Cicero.
Frame your hopes complement by this. I shall
Dispatch the messenger my self.
Salv.
Good Cicero
Remember us and Rome.
Apul.
We were not born
(Tis your own saying) for our selves alone,
Our Countrey claims a part.
Cic.
Farewell, farewell,
Farewell my Friends; but Quintus, let me have
Your company.
Quint.
You shal.
Apul.
Nay then I fear.
Exeunt
Mar.
Come Brother Quintus, thou hast bravely argu'd;
Why weep'st thou?
Quint.
Doe you then approve my language?
I will unsay it.
Mar.
Nay, thou shalt not, canst not.
Come, come, let's in, thy self shall only hear
How I will send defiance to Antonius.
Exeunt
Enter Laureas and Tyro.
Laur.
What thinkst thou Tyro that my Lord admits
None but his brother Quintus to th'delivery
Of his reply?
Tyr.
I cannot guesse the reason.
Laur.
Me thinks he should not bar their longing ears
The hearing, if he does intend acceptance
Of the Triumvirs proffer. But I fear
He does not prize his life at such a rate.
‘Tyro.
Tush, life is precious.
Laur.
But honor more;
‘And what is life?
Tyro.
Tis Natures gift.
Lau.
A poore
‘And worthlesse jewell fastned by a hair
‘To th'ear of vanity.
Tyro.
It is the fair
‘And sprightly shine of this compendious world.
‘Laur.
And from what Phœbus is that lustre hurld.
‘Tyro.
The soul.
La.
A short liv'd day, a twi-light sun,
‘Whose fading beauties cease when scarce begun.
‘But honor is a day, that knows no night,
‘And ever triumphs in immortall light.
I think Antonius might have done more wisely,
And might have sooner compast his desires,
If he had only sent him life, without
The intimation of those harsh conditions;
For so he could not in my slender judgment,
On such applausive terms have contradicted
The proffer'd benefit of his life, and then
I am perswaded fully that my Lord
Would ne'r have let posterity have known
His hate to Antony, from whom he should
Have daign'd th'acceptance of a slavish breath.
Tyro.
Come, prethy leave, I shall despair anon.
Exeunt.
Enter M. Cicero solus.
Now I have seal'd my fate, I must expect
The second message for my head. I must?
What, may not man unlock this Cabinet,
And free the heavenly jewell of his soul?
A wise man stays not Natures period, but
If things occurre, which trouble his tranquillity,
Emits himself, departing out of life
As from a stage or Theatre, nor passes
Whether he take or make his dissolution;
Whether he doe't in sicknesse or in health.
Tis base to live, but brave to die by stealth,
This is the daring Stoicks glorious language
I was my self too of the opinion once;
But now I find it impious and unmanly.
For as some pictures drawn with slender lines,
Deceiving almost our intentive eyes,
Affect us much, and with their subtilties
Wooe us to gaze upon them, but are found
By skilfull and judicious eyes to erre
In symmetry of parts, and due proportion;
With seeming curiousnesse, almost forcing judgment,
And carry with them an applausive shew
Of undeniable verity, yet well scann'd
They are more like the dreams of idle braines,
Then the grave dictates of Philosophers:
The wise Pythagoras was opinion'd better,
For most divinely he forbids us leave
The corps due guard without our Captains license.
And to speak true, we are but Usufructuaries,
The God that governs in us is proprietary.
A Prisoner breaking from his Gaol or hold;
If he be guilty, aggravates his guilt;
If innocent, stains even that innocence
Which might perhaps have brought him cleerly off.
Tis so with us; our Magistrate, I mean
The power that's soveraign of this naturall frame,
Has sent us (Plato saies from heavenly mansions)
Into this fleshy prison; here we live,
And must not free our selves, but patiently
Expect our summons from that sacred power
By his Lieutenant Death. For otherwise
We become guilty of a greater sin
Then Parricide it self, no bond of Nature
Being so neer, as of one to himself.
The Græcians knew this, when they judg'd the body
Of Ajax who had slain himself, unworthy
The common rites of buriall. Carefull Nature
Has fenc'd our hearts about with certain bones;
Fashioned like swords; and shall we break the guard?
No, rather let us wait the will of th'heavens,
And, when we hence are warned by their Ordinance,
Let us depart with glad and joyfull hearts,
And think our selves delivered from a gaol,
Eased of gives and fetters, that we may
Remove unto our own eternall dwelling;
For, without doubt, that power that gave us being,
Did not beget and foster us for this,
That having suffer'd on this stage of life
Thousand afflictions, infinite calamities,
Quotidian toiles, and all in Virtues cause,
We should for guerdon fall into the gulph
Of an eternall death, and non-subsistence.
Yea, rather let us cherish this belief
That there's another haven provided for us,
A blessed refuge for our longing souls.
Arm'd with a setled confidence of this,
Like Socrates I will outface my death,
And with the same fixt spirit resign my breath.
Enter Quintus.
Marc.
How now?
Quint.
O brother, there's no remedy
But die we must, or save our selves by flight.
Mar.
Why, if the Destinies have so determin'd,
Welcome the easer of our woes, Sweet Death.
But what's the matter Quintus?
Quin.
The Triumvirs
Are posting with a threatning speed to Rome;
They come like thunder, and are bringing with them
A bloudy tempest.
Marc.
Who can help it brother?
Yet wee'l incline the times malignity;
The heavens must not be tempted; we are to keep
This fortresse of our lives safe from invasion;
Why did they else intrust us with it? now
That cannot be without the use of means;
We must not look to escape the jaws of Scylla,
When by our own improvident carelesnesse,
We are ingulpht already. He that thinks
Surrounded with his enemies to scape
(As Homer fables in the Trojan war)
Inveloped with a cloud, may be deceiv'd.
No Quintus, we will fly, or, if that word
Be, as the Stoicks prattle, not beseeming
A prudent man, we will give way to th'times,
We will depart.
Qu.
But whither?
Marc.
Whither, Quintus,
But into Macedon to my dearest Brutus?
Prethy see all things suddenly prepared;
Wee'l first unto my house at Tusculum;
Thence to Astyra, so to Macedon.
Exit. Qu.
Marc.
I have a heart dares meet a thousand deaths,
But yet my soul is griev'd to see these days.
Are all my labors come to this? my watchings?
My cares and services for the publick good?
The dangers which I daily have incurr'd
By opposition of new-springing Tyranny?
Are all, all my endeavours come to this,
That they now seem to have precipitated
This ruin on us, rather then withstood it?
Unhappy Rome! the Deities decreed
This downfall of thy liberty; for never
Could all our labours have been so pernicious,
Unlesse there had a greater power dispos'd them
To this sad end; which was the sole Charybdis,
Whence we directed thy now shipwrackt bark.
This sinks me in a sea of grief, thy Senators
Shall die like Victimes, Ruffians be the Priests;
And thou the Altar, in their wretched entrails
A dismall horrid augury shall be written,
Even thy eternall bondage to oppression.
Enter Quint. Pomponia. Quint. jun. muta persona.
Marc.
Are all things ready?
Quint.
Yes, or will be straight,
But the Triumvirs are not with such hast
Posting to th'City, as I was inform'd,
Yet there are certain Centiners they say
Coming as Harbingers.
Marc.
Beleeve me Quintus,
We have the greater reason to be packing;
These are the lightning previous to that thunder,
Whereof you spake before. And lightning strikes not
The humble cottage, but the towering edifice.
I see the loved objects which imprint,
Grieve not Pomponia, Thou art happy, Sister,
Thou maist remain in thine own native Rome,
No Antony thirsts for thy blood, thou maist
In peace adore the deities of thy countrey,
Yea and the Lares of thy private house;
When such as we, must leave our ancient homes,
Yea and our Country to a heavier woe.
Pomp.
And that 'tis grieves me brother; what content,
What pleasure can I take in any thing,
When my beloved Quintus is departed?
My life will not be vitall. O my Quintus.
Soul of my soul.
Quin.
Pomponia, doe not weep,
Tears are an ill presage to such a journey.
Enter Laureas, Tyro, Philologus.
Marc.
What are the Litters ready?
Laur.
Yes my Lord.
Quint.
My life Pomponia, now farewell.
Pomp.
Nay husband,
I'l see your setting forth, I will enjoy
As long as possibly I may thy sight,
Heaven knows if ever I shall see you more.
Marc.
Nay Sister, now your grief is too extream,
Pomp.
It cannot brother.
Marc.
Yes, for though you part,
Thy loving spouse shall leave behind his heart,
Exeunt omnes.
Chorus.
Where is that ancient beauty, Rome,
Was wont to shine
About thy head? where are become
Those rayes divine?
Survey thy Fortunes, stupid City,
Look, look and know
Thy selfe turn'd monument of pity,
A map of woe.
But thou art deaf; well vaunting stand
And tell't about,
It was thy once renowned hand
Thrust Tarquin out;
Proclaim it, Citizens, that you
Did Melius quell
That Cassius and Manlius too,
Your Victimes fell.
Boast this, and more, doe, but withall
With horrour say,
You did it only to install
Worse plagues then they,
That you one viper of the State
Have chang'd for three;
And for a worse Triumvirate
A Monarchy.
Alas, Alas, where shall we shroud
Our wretched heads?
For this threatning pendulous cloud
Wide ruine spreads.
Our ship upon a rock is cast,
Our saile yards mourn,
The Northwind has beat down our Mast,
Our sheets are torn;
Our Cables too (alas!) are lost,
Oares have we none,
And that which grieves and cuts us most,
Our Pilot's gone.
What helps, weak Vessell, on this shelfe
Thy birth divine?
In vain, in vain, thou vaunt'st thy selfe,
A Pontick Pine;
In vain thou invocat'st thy two
Tyndarian Gods,
They are t'anticipate such woe
Too weak by ods.
Then since poor wretches, ah! we must
Our selves compose
To bear each rigid storm, each gust,
Each wave that flowes;
O let us pray, this dangerous floud
Doe not become
A dead sea, or a sea of bloud,
And its own Tombe.
| Marcus Tullius Cicero | |