University of Virginia Library

SCENA. 2.

Enter Cornelia.
Corne.
O traterous villaines, hold your murthering hands,
Or if that needes they must be washt in blood,
Imbrue them heere, heere in Cornelias brest.
Ay mee as I stood looking from the Ship
(Accursed shippe that did not sinke and drowne:
And so haue sau'd me from so loath'd a sight)
Thee to behold what did betide my Lord,
My Pompey deere (nor Pompey now nor Lord)
I sawe those villaines that but now were heere:
Bucher my loue and then with violence,
To drawe his deare beloued Body hence;
What dost thou stand to play the Oratrix,
And tell a tale of thy deere husbands death?
Doth Pompey, doth thy loue moue thee no more?
Go cursed Cornelia rent thy wretched haire,
Drowne blobred cheekes in seas of saltest teares.
And if, it be true that sorrowes feeling powre,
Could turne poore Niobe into a weeping stone
O let mee weepe a like, and like stone be,
And you poore lights, that sawe this tragick sight,
Be blind and punnish'd with eternall night.
Vnhappy long to speake, bee neare so bould
Since that thou this so heauy tale hast tould.
These are but womanish exclamations
Light sorrowe makes such lamentations,
Pompey no words my true griefe can declare,
This for thy loue shalbe my best welfare.

Stab herselfe.