University of Virginia Library

THE SIXTE SCENE.

Chorus. Octauia.
A lack the peoples bitter loue,
And dyre good will to many one,
Which, when they hoysted sayles aboue,
With pleasaunt blastes it made to grone,
And caried them from quiet shore,
That faynting, leaues them in the deepe,
And tumbling, raging waters rore.
Cornelia piteous wretch did weepe,
And sore bewayle hir sonnes estate:
The peoples loue did vndoe them,
And wondrous fauour, bred them hate:
Great worthy peeres of noble stem:
Of high renowne for vertues prayse:
In fayth and eloquence did pas
Their stomacks stout their fame did rayse:
Ith lawes eche one most excellent was.
And Scipio, thee did Fortune yeelde
Unto lyke death, and curssed wracke,
Whom neyther honours pompe coulde sheelde,
Nor fenced house thy foes keepe backe.
Moe to repeate, although I coulde,
Pure present griefe forbiddeth sore:
Ere whyle to whom the people woulde,
Her Fathers antique Courte restore,
And Brothers wedlocke once againe,
Now weeping, wringing hands poore wretch,
Unto hir cruell, deadly payne,
The armed souldiours doe hir fetch.
How safe doth pouerty lye content,
In thetched house safe shrouded there?
High raysed towers with blasts are bent,
Which often tymes them ouer beare.
Oct.

Chor.
The mortall broode the destnies guide:
Themselues they nothing can assure,
That certainly doth stedfast bide:
VVhich our last day of life, procure,
(VVhereof we alwayes should beware,)
Much daungerous chaunces for to try:
Unto your troubled minde with care,
Now many saumples do apply,
Which your accursed court hath brought,
To bolden you in all your broyle:
For what hath more your troubles wrought,
What doth against you sorer toyle,
Than fortune doth? the first of all,
Agrippas childe brought forth to life,
Whome we Tyberrus daughter call,
By lawe, and eke Prince Cæsars wife,
Of many sonnes a carefull dame,
I cannot chose but now recount,
Whose worthy, glorious ample name,
Throughout the world doth much surmount.
So oft with belly bolne that bare
Desyred fruicts, and peares pledge,
Ere long thou sufferedst exiles care,
Strypes, chaines, and boltes of yron wedge,
And mourning much, which so did frame,
That death they causde thee to abyde.

So Liuia, Drusus lucky dame
In male kinde babes, did hedling slyde,
Into a cruell monstrous deede,
And death sore pearcing deadly dart.
Hir mothers fates doth Iulia speede,
To folow streight with all hir heart,
Who after longer wasted time
With bloudy fauchion kene, was slaine,
Although for no iust cause or crime.
Your mother eke that once did raigne,
Who then esteemd of Claudius well,
Did wisely weld his court at will,
And fruitfull was, as you can tell,
What could not her desire fulfill?
Shee sometime subiect to hir slaue,
To death was put with souldiours blade,
What shee, that easy hope might haue,
Toth skies, hir raigne to rise haue made,
Prynce Neroes lusty Parent great?
First tost with shipmans boysterous force,
Then torne with sword in Prynces heat,
Did shee not lye a senceles corse,
Oct.
Loe mee the tyrant stern will send
To yrcksome shades and hellish sprits.
Why wretch doe I the tyme thus spend?
Draw mee to death you to whose myghts,
False Fortune hath bequeathed mee.
I witnesse now the heauenly powre.
What dost thou bedlame? leaue to flee,
With prayer to Gods, who on thee lowre.
I call to witnesse Tartar deepe,
And sprytes of Hell reuenging freakes
Of haynous facts, in Dungeon steepe,
And Syre whom death deserued wreakes.
I doe not now repyne to dye,
Deck vp your Ship, and hoyse your Sayle,
On frothing seas to windes on hye:
Let him that guides the Helm not fayle,
To seeke the shore of Pharian Land.

Cho.
O pippling puffe of western wynde,
Which sacrifice didst once withstand,
Of Iphigen to death assignde:
And close in Cloude congealed clad,
Did cary hir from smoking aares,
Which angry, cruell Uirgin had:
This Prynce also opprest with cares,
Saue from this paynefull punishment,
To Dians temple safely borne:
The barbarous Moores to rudenesse bent,
Then Prynces Courtes in Rome forlorne,
Haue farre more Cyuile curtesie:
For there doth straungers death appease
The angry Gods in heauens on hie,
But Romayne bloude, our Rome must please.