University of Virginia Library

Scene First.

Cornelia, Philip.
Cornel.

Phil.
Smeard with his Blood, less sensible than he,
And wanting Breath to curse their Cruelty,
Madam, at length I bent my Doubtfull course,
Where the Rough Winds the Waves on Shore did force,
Long did I search in Vain, at last hard by
A Pank of Sand, the loved Corps I spy;
Now it ee'n toucht the Shore, and now again
The wanton Billows threw it to the main,
Thus still he seem'd to be the sport of Fate,
Not freed by Death from Fortunes constant hate;
I staid no longer, but leapt in and bore
The sacred Reliques in my Arms a Shore;
Hard by some pieces of a Wrack there lay,
Such as chance only offer'd in my way,
With these a Funeral pile I rudely dress,
The time and place might have afforded less,
And now the Body scarce had felt the Flame,
When to my pious Cares a Partner came;
Cordus a Roman from the Town does stray,
And the kind Heav'n guided his steps that way;
The Headless Trunk when once he did but view,
By the sad marks he straight great Pompey knew;
His Eyes then full of Tears, O thou, he crys,
Whom Fate hath Destind to so high a Prize,
Instead of Punishment which thou mayst fear,
Honour attends thee, and Reward is near;
Cæsar arriv'd does to the World proclame,
Himself Revenger of that sacred Name,
To which in silence thou dost here direct,
The mournfull Tribute of thy last respect;
Cornelia too forc't to this fatal Land,
Thou maist present these Ashes to her Hand,
With Reverence such, the Victor does her treat,
None but the Gods can claim respect so great.
This said, he runs while still the Corps does burn
Back to the Town, and with him brought this Urn,
Where of your Hero now inclos'd doth lie
All that was Mortal, or knew how to Dye.

Cornel.
Such Piety, what e're my Fortune be,
The Gods can never Unrewarded see.

Phil.
Scarce had I entred, when i'th' Crowded street
An Armed Rout I in disorder meet
Hasting unto the Gate, at which their King
Expected was some Greater strength to bring;
Each thinks, though safe, the Roman Sword he feels,
And makes no step, but Cæsar's at his Heels,
He Reeking in their Blood, was in a round
Of Armed Troops, and with his Legions Crown'd,
I'th' midst, Photinus by his Sentence stands,
Yielding his hated Head to th'Hangmans hands,
As soon as in his sight I did appear,
He knew me straight, and bid me to draw near,
My Masters Ashes from my Arms he took,
And to his Listning Audience thus spoke,
Ye Reliques of a Hero, whose great Fame
I scarce can Equal with a Conquerours name,
See how the Traitor does to Justice pay
Life, which from you his Treachery took away,
Receive this Sacrifice, and then expect
The Altars we e're long to you erect,
Where greater Victims shall be offer'd. Friend
Thee to Cornelia with this Gift I send,
To her griev'd Heart carry this weak allay,
While to her full Revenge I make my way.
He left me with a Sigh, and having first
Kissed the Urn, bequeath'd it to my trust.

Cornel.
Alas, 'tis no intolerable pain
They feel, who for a Rivals loss complain;
Well may he spend a Sigh upon this Urn,
Whose restless fears to softer pity turn;
Well may he run to his Revenge with haste,
When his own Danger spurrs him on as fast,
Since the Concern he puts on for our Fate,
Both gains him Glory, and secures his State:
But Cæsar's Noble, nor will I suspect
What Grief and Envy justly might Object.
His Rivals Death has ended all their strife,
And this false King conspires against his Life;
His peril Arms him now, and all that's done
On Honours score must not Confus'dly run;
Love too's ingag'd, and Cleopatra draw;
The Sword that seems to favour Pompeys cause;
So many Interests in this Action joyn,
I need not think, that he considers mine;
Yet I'le perswade my Self he Fights for me,
Because I'de do no less, if I were he,
For noble Minds must on themselves reflect,
Their guess at others Meaning to direct.