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Marcus Tullius Ciceroes death.
Therfore , when restlesse rage of wynde, and waueHee saw: By fates, alas calld for (quod hee)
Is haplesse Cicero: sayl on, shape course
To the next shore, and bryng me to my death.
Perdie these thanks, reskued from ciuil swoord,
Wilt thou, my countrey, paye? I see mine end:
So powrs diuine, so bid the gods aboue,
In citie saued that Consul Marcus shend.
Speakyng nomore, but drawyng from deep hert
Great grones, euen at the name of Room reherst:
His yies, and cheeks, with showrs of teares, hee washt.
And (though a route in dayly daungers worn)
With forced face, the shipmen held theyr teares:
And, striuyng long the seas rough floods to passe,
In angry wyndes, and stormy stowrs made waye:
And at the last, safe anchord in the rode.
Came heauy Cicero a land: with payn,
His faynted lyms the aged sire dothe draw:
And, round about their master, stood his band:
Nor greatly with theyr own hard hap dismayd,
Nor plighted fayth, prone in sharp time to break:
Soom swoords prepare: soom theyr deare lord assist:
In littour layd, they lead hym vnkouth wayes:
If so deceaue Antonius cruell gleaus
They might, and threats of folowing routs escape.
Thus lo, that Tullie, went, that Tullius,
Of royall robe, and sacred Senate prince:
When hee afar the men approche espyeth,
And of his fone the ensignes dothe aknow:
And, with drawn swoord, Popilius threatnyng death:
Whose life, and holl estate, in hazard once,
Herd hym, and at his thundryng voyce amazde.
Herennius eek, more eyger than the rest,
Present enflamde with furie, him purseews.
What might hee doo? Should hee vse in defense
Disarmed hands? or pardon ask, for meed?
Should hee with woords attempt to turn the wrath
Of tharmed knyght, whose safegard hee had wrought?
No, age, forbids, and fixt within deep brest
His countreys loue, and falling Rooms image.
The charret turn, sayth hee, let loose the rayns:
Roon to the vndeserued death: mee, lo,
Hath Phebus fowl, as messanger, forwarnd:
And Ioue desires a neew heauensman to make.
Brutus, and Cassius soulls, liue you in blisse:
In case yet all the fates gaynstriue vs not,
Neyther shall wee perchaunce dye vnreuenged.
Now haue I liued, O Room, ynough for mee:
My passed lyfe nought suffreth mee to dout
Noysom obliuion of the lothesom death.
Slea mee: yet all thofspring to coom shall knowe
And this deceas shall bring eternall lyfe.
Yea and (onlesse I fayl, and all in vain
Room, I soomtyme thy Augur chosen was)
Not euermore shall frendly fortune thee
Fauour, Antonius: once the day shall coom:
When her deare wights, by cruell spight, thus slayn,
Uictorious Room shall at thy hands require.
Mee likes, therwhyle, go see the hoped heauen.
Speech had he left: and therwith hee, good man,
His throte preparde, and held his hed vnmoued.
His hastyng too those fates the very knights
Be lothe to see: and, rage rebated, when
They his bare neck beheld, and his hore heyres:
Scant could they hold the teares, that forth gan burst:
And almost fell from bloody hands the swoords.
Onely the stern Herennius, with grym look,
Dastards, why stand you styll? he sayth: and streight,
Swaps of the hed, with his presumptuous yron.
Ne with that slaughter yet is hee not fild:
Fowl shame on shame to heap is his delyte.
Wherfore the hands also doth hee of smyte,
Him, yeldyng strayned goste, from welkin hye,
With lothly chere, lord Phebus gan beheld:
And in black clowd, they saye, long hid his hed.
The latine Muses, and the Grayes, they wept:
And, for his fall, eternally shall weep.
And lo, hertpersyng Pitho (straunge to tell)
Who had to him suffisde bothe sense, and woords,
When so he spake: and drest, with nectar soote,
That flowyng toung: when his wyndpype disclosde,
Fled with her fleeyng frend: and (out alas)
Hath left the erth, ne wil nomore return.
Popilius flyeth, therwhyle: and, leauyng there
The senslesse stock, a gryzely sight doth bear
Unto Antonius boord, with mischief fed.
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