THE TRAGEDY OF THAT FAMOUS ROMAN orator Marcus Tullius CICERO  
LONDON, Printed by Richard Cotes, for John sweating at the angel in Popes-head Alley, 1651.   

The Scene ROME.  

The persons of the PLAY.  The Ghost of Julius Caesar. 
 Marcus Tullius Cicero. 
 Quintus Cicero 
his Brother.  Marcus Antonius 
formerly consul, now at enmity with the Senate.  Octavius Caesar, Lepidus' 
Generals for the Senate.  Publ. Servilius, Piso, Calenus 
Senators.  Salvius, Carnutius, Publius Apuleius 
Tribunes of the people.  Minutius 
Praetor.  Popilius Lanas 
Colonel.  Cornelius 
a Centurion.  Quintus junior 
Quintus Cicero's son.  Philologus 
a Scholar, Quintus Cicero's man.  Clodius, Laenas 
Commanders in Lepidus' Army, friends to M. Antonius.  Laureas a Poet, Tyro— a great pretender to history, 
Marcus Cicero's men.  The Senate. 
 Chorus. 
 〈◊〉 
wife to Quintus Cicero.  Fulvia 
Marcus Antonius wife.  Centurions. 
 Lictors. 
 soldiers. 
 Messengers. 
   


I Purae Cicero pater loquelae,  
I Jurista Quiritium supreme,  
Post passas Latii furentis iras  
I pernix, fuge, & Alitis Sabaei  
Surgentis tepido ex rogo renatis  
Vestitus calamis, petas Asylum  
Magni pectoris, aurei, sereni,  
In quo Mercurius, Themista, uterque  
Divini soboles Jovis triumphat,  
Hermes eloquii fluentis autor,  
AEqui diva parens Themista Juris.    

THE TRAGEDY OF M. Tullius CICERO  

Actus Primus.  
Julius Caesar's Ghost.  

WHat not one prodigy to 〈◊〉 thee, Room,  
And give loud warning that great 〈◊〉 come?  
What not one peal of thunder to 〈◊〉,  
And echo from thy seven proud hills the fame  
Of my arrival? is my weight so light  
It cannot force one dismal 〈◊〉 affright  
And wake thy Genius? is the ground thus 〈◊〉  
And Julius like an exhalation sent  
From the black womb of hell, yet cannot 〈◊〉  
An Earthquake in thy breast? I like, I like  
Such dire forerunners. What? before my fall,  
In 〈◊〉 great Forum, upon every 〈◊〉,  
A bird of Night was perched in midst of day,  
And when black Night her mantle did display  
( As if the Stygian people had forsook  
Their pitchy harbours, and possession took  
Of th' upper world) the air was filled with 〈◊〉  
Of rolling fires, and the presaging dreams  
Of Citizens were broke by dismal frights  
Caused by the confused noise of walking sprights:  
And is my rise so full of silence?  
Thunder.   

So,  
Now stubborn Rome I'll thunder forth thy 〈◊〉.  
Caesar must be revenged, and to thy cost.  
Alas thou canst not bribe my wronged Ghost,  
With the vain fiction of thy 〈◊〉 star;  
Were I but stellified indeed I'd 〈◊〉  
Thy pride with such an influence should convey  
Submission through thy blond, and cast a ray  
Should 〈◊〉 a Sun to 〈◊〉 the Roman world  
Without a Colleague: yet this sit is hurled  
Through thy own blindness on thy cursed head,  
〈◊〉 with such plagues to 〈◊〉, as thy 〈◊〉  
Thy butchered Julius from his soul abhored;  
My glory was, that Fortune did afford  
That royal power to do thee good I would,  
And Nature heart to will the good I could.  
But I was too too mild; a heavier hand  
Shall make thee stoop to sovereign command,  
And 〈◊〉 the yoke, though sullied first and died  
In thine own gore; a sourge shall check thy pride;  
The days of Sylla shall return, and blood  
Swim down thy streets in as profuse a 〈◊〉,  
As ere his black 〈◊〉 made, the sword  
Shall be as free as then, the Slave his Lord,  
The Wife her Husband shall betray, the 〈◊〉  
Thinking the vital thread of's Father spun  
To a too tedious length, and that his feet  
Travel too slowly to the grave, shall greet  
His age with death; The Senators shall drink  
Of the same cup of slaughter too, and think  
The hurden easy, for, A sudden death  
Is sweet to them that scorn a slavish 〈◊〉.  
Each Proscripts head shall 〈◊〉 a weighty rate,  
And Piety be treason to the State.  
Thus, Rome, shalt thou be plagued, and among  
Thy other evils lose thy sacred Tongue,  
The great patrician of the speaking Art,  
Then shall thy griefs lie fettered in thy heart,  
And speak no other language but of tears;  
Words shall be strangled by thy stupid fears.   Exit. Enter Marcus Cicero. 

Now ought we to give thanks unto the Gods  
That now at length the Fathers of the public  
With free unforced judgments dare lay open  
The sick distempers, which 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉  
The body 〈◊〉? methinks in this  
I see some gleam of liberty break forth  
And promise to the State a milder 〈◊〉,  
Then, since our late unbridled 〈◊〉  
Usurped the 〈◊〉 heaven, we have been blessed with.  
As sor myself, though now grown old and feeble  
〈◊〉 my loved country's service, I have yet  
As good a heart as ever to defend her.  
What though my voice did seem 〈◊〉 while suppressed?  
My heart did nourish 〈◊〉 untainted love  
Of the republic, which in zealous flames  
Has now discharged itself in th' face of Antony  
That Traitor to the freedom of his country;  
I did defen I while but a Youth, the State,  
I will not now I am grown old for sake it;  
I have 〈◊〉 the swords of 〈◊〉;  
I will not now fear his.  
Some twenty years ago I well remember  
I said 〈◊〉 could not to a Consular  
Be 〈◊〉; how much more truly now  
May I pronounce unto an aged man?  
Now may I wish for Death, yet from my heart  
Two things I do desire, and pray for; one,  
That I may leave the Roman people free,  
〈◊〉 immortal Gods cannot bestow upon me  
A greater blessedness: the other's this;  
That all may meet with a 〈◊〉 fate,  
As their deserts have been unto the State.   Enter Laureas. Laur. 
Your Brother Quintus Sir.  Marc. 
Entreat him hither.  Enter Qu. 〈◊〉, and Philologus. 

Brother you're welcome: How does thy Pomponia,  
And my young Cozen?   Quint. 
Both my Wife and son  
Are( heaven be 〈◊〉) as well as my best wishes  
Can fancy they would have them; and my Wife  
Presents her love, my Son his duty to you.  Marc. 
They cannot by a better messenger,  
For you are Monarch of Pomponia's love,  
And 〈◊〉 of his duty; these are titles  
Good in Occonomy, but once thrust out  
Make heavy hearts in State when they return;  
You have not heard of Antony's proceedings  
Since he departed to Brundisium?  Quint. 
Not one word.  Marc. 
I collect the consul's drift;  
But why do I the State that injury  
To style him Consul that so governs it,  
That 〈◊〉 his life so, and was so 〈◊〉?  
His aim I knows at those four Legions  
Transported from the 〈◊〉 Province  
At his appointment thither by his brother;  
'Twere dangerous he should win them; but I have  
A surer confidence in the martial Legion,  
For it has ever been extolled as much  
For its 〈◊〉 toth' State as 〈◊〉;  
The fourth is under conduct of the 〈◊〉  
Egnatuleius, a brave Citizen  
And valiant man, so that I cannot doubt  
But he'll be partly frustrate.  
Then Caesar's posting to Campania  
Puts 〈◊〉 in hope, 'tis to procure the Colonies  
There resident, to side with him, against  
Antonius; for you know the Noble youth  
Will not be cheeked by him. But Brother Quintus  
I have some private matters: which require  
A more retired conference; take a seat.  Laureas. 
How does my fellow academic? canst  
Digest my Lord's discourse of Summum bonum?  Philol. 
'Tis somewhat tough, methinks; but Laureas  
Which hadft thou rather be? An Epicure?  
A Stoic? or Peripatetic? tell me.  Laur. 
Why faith before I was infranchized boy,  
The Stoic would have furnished me completely,  
I should have laughed a cudgel in the face,  
And swore a bed of straw had been as soft  
As wool, or down of ermines. I should then  
Have stood as stout as Atlas with a burden  
Weighty as his upon my brawny shoulders;  
But since I did with thee shake off the Name  
And Nature of a slave, and serve my Lord  
More for affection than 〈◊〉, I could  
Sometimes methinks shake hands with 〈◊〉.  Marc. 
It must be so. But brother since your haste  
Hinders your longer stay, let me entreat you  
Philologus a while may bear me company.  Quint. 
With all my heart.  Marc. 
My love unto 〈◊〉.  Quint. 
I will; Farewell.  Marc. 
Farewell good brother Quintus.  Exit. Qu. 

Philologue and Laureas come let's hear  
How you have relished your Philosophy.   Phil. 
My Lord, your Laureas relishes 〈◊〉,  
For he is almost turned an Epicure.  Cicero. 
An Epicure!  Laur. 
Not I my Lord, I told him  
Virtue which in a proud conceit neglected  
The due preservatives of the weaker nature,  
And was estranged from that first-born 〈◊〉  
Of making natures union, if'twere possible,  
Immortal, by a competent cherishing  
Of either part, and in an 〈◊〉  
Like an Intelligence, all Soul and Reason,  
Was wholly taken up with mental beauties;  
Was like a table furnished with rare viands,  
But not a dish prepared with Condimentall  
Provocatives to make the relish kind;  
For Virtue is, we know, a fruitless, 〈◊〉,  
Impolished treasure, without use and action,  
Which give it taste and life, now to the use  
Health, wealth and liberty are requisite,  
Though not essential unto virtue's self,  
That root of goodness. Thus you may see my Lord,  
Laureas is neither Epicure nor Stoic;  
'Twas only the comparison which made  
Your shallow-brained scholastic think I was  
One of the Kitchen; but were I a hog  
Of Epicures fraternity, yet his brain  
Should not be th' Atalanta to unhead me.  Cicer. 
Why here's no sign of Epicure in this,  
'Tis currant and authentic.  Phil. 
True, but Sir,  
He harped upon another string even now.  
Yet, since he is so cunning, pray my Lord  
Let me be stoical a while, and try  
Whether he be sound as he pretends.  Laur. 
Pish, there's a face to act a Stoic with!  
Make me believe the goddess Vinus thought  
She was embraced by Mars, when 'twas young Adon  
With whom she dallied. Give me one shall look  
With as severe a countenance as Cato  
When he unshackled his heroic soul.  Cicer. 
No more of him, I pray, unless thou would  
Make fountains of my eyes; but Laureas  
You have the fittest visage for a Stoic,  
It shall be your part.  Laur. 
Then my Noble Lord,  
Suppose I had engrossed the Stoic wisdom  
Within my bosom, and were now brought forth  
To some unheard of torture: thus I'd stand,  
And thus I'd dare the utmost of their furies.  
Vain mortals, do you think my fearless soul  
Is capable of pains? why, tear this flesh  
From off my bones; you touch not me: for know  
This is not Laureas but his robe. Extract  
The very quintessence of the strongest poison,  
I'll quaff it as I would divinest Nectar,  
And think it but a draught of Immortality:  
Cast me alive into a den of Lions,  
I will embrace my destiny, and deem  
The loudest accent of their spacious throats  
But as a trumpet to proclaim my triumphs.  
I would not bellow in Perillus' engine,  
But like the Swan in Tiber's silver streams  
Sing my own dirge with an unwrinckled note.  
Nay, more than this, the disunited heaven's  
Tumbling upon my head should not affright me,  
Yea the confused rattling of their ruins  
Should be as ravishing harmony to my ears,  
As now they make in their celestial spheres.  
Now, Sir, suppose the anger of some tyrant  
Had thrust me from the bosom of my country,  
From the embraces of a faithful spouse,  
And the sweet pledges of our mutual loves,  
And I were wand'ring in some wilderness,  
Within whose gloomy shades was never heard  
The Daulian minstrel, but the boding tones  
Of owls, and Night-ravens, and in every bush  
Lay couched a Lion, Tiger, or a wolf:  
Would I sit musing in a dumpish passion?  
And cry, O Times! O Manners! no my Lord,  
A wise man does not tie his house, or home  
To the tuition of one private 〈◊〉,  
Nor does he bound what men their country call  
To the straight limits of one State or kingdom;  
Though Thule were the place of my Nativity,  
Yet should the Gades be my country too.  
I have a little world within myself,  
And shall one narrow landscape claim me hers?  
Now for those petty dangers I defy them,  
A wise man 〈◊〉 in his sacred front  
The character of Majesty, which brutes  
Though ne'er so wild and savage must adore.  
As for my Wife and Children they were given me  
Not for eternity, and as good be severed  
By exile as by death: had I still lived  
Dividing my indulgent soul among them,  
I might perhaps have seen my loving Wife  
Ravished before my face, I might have seen  
My children's brains knocked out against the stones,  
And dashed in my own wounded eyes, but now  
I shall not view those clouds. Thus had I been  
Unhappy, had I not unhappy been.  
And now my honoured Lord, with wonder hear,  
How in a yet unparalleled Affliction  
Your Stoic Laureas would demean himself.  
Suppose my Lo.— O how my heartstrings ache  
To utter't! yea it makes me clean forget  
The Stoic whom I personate: I say  
Suppose— O hold me good Philologus.  
The very thought will strike me dead— suppose  
My bosom Friend, my faithful Pylades,  
My second self, even my Philologus,  
Were whipped clean through the streets of Rome & cudgeled  
Till his bones cracked again, d' ye think I'd weep?  
Lift up my eyes, and cry, O cursed Heavens  
Which suffer innocence thus to be afflicted!  
Now, my Lord, I'd do an Act of wonder  
Which after Ages should admire; I'd down  
And in the Cellar all my sorrows drown.  Cicer. 
is't come to this? you are a wanton Laureas.  Laur. 
'Tis stoical my Lord.  Cicer. 
Well let it be so.  
But since you think you could so sweetly sing  
In th' engine of Perillus; let me hear you  
Out of't. for I'm persuaded you might frame  
Your voice a great deal better to a song  
In a far colder place.  Laur. 
'Tis true my Lord;  
But I spoke like a Stoic.  Cicer. 
Be not modest.  
Begin: but let your song be sage, and grave,  
Such as a vestal need not blush to hear.  
Rip up the Vices of the State, that while  
You sing, my wounded heart may bleed for sorrow.  

Song.  

How happy was the Roman State?  
When her chiefest Magistrate was raised to the fasces from the plow?  
when such as Cincinnatus swayed  
The helm of th' commonwealth, and made  
Her proudest Adversaries humbly how  
To th' self 〈◊〉 yoke wherewith they used to check  
The 〈◊〉 of th' toiling 〈◊〉 neck?   

How sacred was the Roman Name?  
How 〈◊〉 was our virgin same?  
When in their 〈◊〉 our bravest men  
Had nothing glorious but themselves?  
When he who now in quarries 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 golden 〈◊〉 as low as Pluto's den,  
Was deemed a parricide, and had the doom  
Of one who rent his mother's sacred 〈◊〉?   

How happy were we then, how 〈◊〉,  
When the 〈◊〉 was possessed  
Of 〈◊〉 ancient Palinures?  
When Curius and Fabricius led  
How Armies, which for 〈◊〉 said  
On 〈◊〉 〈◊〉? then the easy 〈◊〉  
Of her more temperate body soon were wrought,  
〈◊〉 health with little loss of blood was bought.   

But since the Asian luxury  
Has 〈◊〉 into our 〈◊〉, and we  
No 〈◊〉 for same in dishes 〈◊〉  
Then if we had the conquest 〈◊〉  
Of the 〈◊〉 Hamilears son,  
Or brought 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Syphax home alive  
To 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Triumphs: now a thousand pains  
〈◊〉 brooding in the States corrupted veins.   

The commonwealth is full of 〈◊〉,  
And each day 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Threaten the downsall of this frame;  
〈◊〉 constitution is too week  
To 〈◊〉 such 〈◊〉, and not break,  
〈…〉 quench the 〈◊〉.  
〈◊〉 thou 〈◊〉 Aesculapius' mighty 〈◊〉,  
And send some 〈◊〉 influence from above.   Philologus and Laureas together. 

〈◊〉 〈◊〉 our Aesculapius' mighty, Jove,  
And send some 〈◊〉 influence from above.    〈◊〉. 
So here's a Song has 〈◊〉, poetry;  
O 'tis the language of the Gods when Virtue  
〈◊〉 made 〈◊〉 theme; they prostitute the Muses,  
And turn 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 a stews, that clothe  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 fancies in these 〈◊〉 weeds.  Enter Quintus Cicero. Marc. 
Brother so soon? your countenance methinks  
Tells me your bosom travails with some news,  
And fain would be delivered.  Quint. 
Sir, Octavius  
Is with an Army at the gates.  Mar. 
Octavius?  
Why, that's not Hannibal.  Quint. 
But the Citizens  
Suspect a more than panic treachery;  
For those that saw the Consul and Octavius  
So lately reconciled in the Capitol,  
Will not believe these forces are contracted  
To oppose 〈◊〉; but that covertly  
Both have complotted one to aid the other  
In the promotion of their aims; that Antony  
May gain the sovereignty, and Octavius  
Revenge on those which slew his uncle Julius.  Enter Tyro. Tyr. 
Carnutius, Sir, the Tribune of the people  
Desires some conference with your Lordship.  Mar. 
Quintus,  
He's a professed 〈◊〉 to Antonius,  
And friend to Caesar. Bring the Tribune in.  Enter Carnutius. Car. 
Octavius is returned.  Mar. 
Ay, so I hear,  Car. 
And brought along with him ten thousand soldiers.  
I have explored his aims, and they are whole  
For opposition of the Consul Antony  
Whom he has much endamaged.  Mar. 
How Carnutius?  Car. 
By spies, which he has closely had about him  
Still crossing and opposing his proceedings,  
And with such good success, as now the Legions  
Are even upon desertion of his party  
Especially the Fourth and martial.  Mar. 
Tribune,  
Inform the people how the youth's affected,  
And 〈◊〉 procure he shall be straight brought in;  
For I'm persuaded, since he is returned  
Antonius' enemy, the provident Senate  
Will not be so injurious to the State  
And their own 〈◊〉, as deny him entrance,  
Yea, I presume they will with glad 〈◊〉  
Meet the first motion of his entertainment.  Car. 
They will no 〈◊〉; Come let's dispatch my Lo.  Exeunt. Enter Piso and Salvius. Salv. 
Me thinks th' admittance of Octavius,  
Will much endamage Antony.  Piso. 
I fear it,  
And doubt not but he will be shortly here:  
But what dost think of this young 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉?  
It cannot enter Piso's head, that 〈◊〉.  
To the republic does incite him to it.  Salv. 
In-faith Piso my opinion this; I doubt  
The boy will prove at length another 〈◊〉.  Piso. 
And so think I.  Salv. 
Was't ever known a youth  
Of his 〈◊〉 spirit, was so much devoted  
Unto his country cause without some plot  
To strengthen his ambitious aims? well Piso.  
I am persuaded Caesar's heart and countenance  
Are not Correlatives.  Pis. 
And I fear our Orator,  
Although he think himself a profound Statist,  
Is but as 'twere a visor, which Octavius  
Covers the face of his close projects with:  
Well, mark the end, these now are but surmises,  
But they may prove oraculous. Let this pass.  
I think if Antony come he will not stay,  
You know he has determined to be Master  
Of the 〈◊〉 Province.  Salv. 
True, he has.  Pis. 
Now when he's gone to Gaul, if Cicero  
Advice the Senate any thing against him,  
It must be our parts to oppose their counsels.  Salv. 
It must. I'll second you, you know 〈◊〉  
Do much by virtue of the Tribuneship.  Pis. 
'Tis true, you may do much indeed.  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
The Consul  
Antonius is arrived; and, 〈◊〉 Piso,  
Desires your presence; to you, 〈◊〉,  
He sends his love, and prays you to repair  
Unto the Senate, which is newly convocated.  Salv. 
Piso return my love, I'll 〈◊〉 straight.  Ex. Enter Quintus Cicero. Pomponia. Pomp. 
How does my Brother Marcus' Cicero?  Quint. 
Well my Pomponia, but would be far better  
Could he once see the commonwealth in health.  Pomp. 
Why, husband; what have States 〈◊〉 too?  Quint. 
They have my Sweet, and as old fathers die  
To make room for posterity, so Chance  
Quits ancient States, that from their 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
New ones arise. States have their several 〈◊〉  
Which carry some analogy with 〈◊〉:  
Their small beginnings are their infancies.  
Their bold exploits to propagate their glories,  
Are like the slashes of ambitious Youth;  
When they are mounted to the highest pitch  
Decreed them in the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
They are arrived to a state much like  
That which in us doth bear the name of Manhood.  
They stand not long on this high 〈◊〉 of Glory,  
But stealingly, as we, do 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Their sprightly vigour like a full-blown Rose  
Droops and decays, they suddenly contract  
〈◊〉; grow diseased, and finally  
Sink down into the grave of their own ruins  
The 〈◊〉 and the 〈◊〉 Monarchies  
Died of a 〈◊〉; then the 〈◊〉  
Of a seditious quarrel in the Humours  
Striving to be predominant;  
Greece of a 〈◊〉; 〈◊〉 first was caught  
With an 〈◊〉 fever, which at last  
Degenerated to an Ague, and  
Was quickly seconded by Death. But Rome  
( Only she never felt an Ague yet,  
Unless when Hannibal was at her gates)  
Is whole infected with a various mixture  
Of all together; she's even grown a spital,  
An hospital of diseases which will sink  
Her glories to the first and ancient Nothing:  
But may that day be leaden heeled, nor fall  
Within the 〈◊〉 of this Age.  Pomp. 
〈◊〉 Husband,  
This passion is not Roman. We may raise  
Our spirits with hopes of better times;  
Caesar affords us comfort.  Quint. 
True Pomponia,  
But Rome has had a long succession  
Of State- 〈◊〉, when this 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Is cut away, another may bud forth;  
Pray heaven we have no cause with that old 〈◊〉  
Of Syracuse, in our fruitless wishes  
To dig our Ancient tyrants up again.  Enter Marcus 〈◊〉. 
Welcome from the Senate Brother, pray what news?  
How were things carried?  Mar. 
Nothing done at all.  
The Consul Antony came without all doubt  
To censure Caesar's doings, but his mind  
It seems was changed; for having said a little  
Touching the Provinces and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
But not a word of Caesar, he departed.  Quint. 
And what will follow think you?  Mar. 
Sure he will not  
Stay long in Rome, for, as I hear,' has sent  
His Army to Ariminum, no doubt  
With an intent to follow, than besides  
I think he dares not stay for fear of Caesar;  
For he returned though proudly, yet but weakly  
With only one 〈◊〉 cohort with him.  
But 'tis grown something late, I must entreat you  
To let my cousin Quintus guide me homeward.  Quint. 
He will be proud to do you such a service.  Exeunt. Enter Antonius. Ant. 
What evil Genius 〈◊〉 me? the Fourth  
And 〈◊〉 Legions sided with 〈◊〉?  
For so I have received 〈◊〉;  
Well 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Alba, 〈◊〉, as I 〈◊〉,  
The 〈◊〉 all Legion have 〈◊〉 themselves.  Enter 〈◊〉. 
I will not thus be 〈◊〉 by a boy,  
A mongrel; 〈◊〉 shall a 〈◊〉 or 〈◊〉  
Stop the 〈◊〉 Eagle in his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
And heaven be scaled by a band of Pygmies.  
Let Cicero call him Rome's 〈◊〉 boy,  
And truly golden offspring of his Mother,  
Let the whole Senate hug him, as they do;  
Yet will I 〈◊〉 and ruin all their hopes,  
I'll send him naked home to his first Nothing,  
And make him answer to 〈◊〉; what?  
Is not the Family of 〈◊〉' 〈◊〉  
Derived from Anton son to Hercules?  
And shall 〈◊〉 sons of Earth confront me thus?  
The stellisied Alcides shall not lose  
The cheerful lustre of his rays, to 〈◊〉  
His blood run muddy in his issues veins.  Fulv. 
I like this spirit, 〈◊〉, methinks I see  
The world already prostrate at thy feet,  
Cherish this fire: o were't thou all 〈◊〉  
Of these heroic slames, 〈◊〉 would be  
To such a Jove another Semele.  Anton. 
Spoke like thy glorious self: yet, Fulvia,  
Passion or indiscretion may 〈◊〉 him,  
But when I weigh his Actions in the balance  
Of 〈◊〉 and more accurate Construction,  
I 〈◊〉 he has no base or common soul,  
And does as well inherit Caesar's he 〈◊〉,  
And 〈◊〉, as his name: beside 〈◊〉 has  
The counsels of experienced heads to steer  
His Actio is by; so that he's now above  
The pitch of my disdain: with strong-nerved eyes,  
Like a young Eagle, he confronts our Sun.  〈◊〉. 
What 〈◊〉 so soon? 〈◊〉 an Eagle?  
A Scarab rather. He an Eagle Antony?  
He's but 〈◊〉 Ganymed 〈◊〉 an eagles' 〈◊〉:  
The Octavian' family 〈◊〉 yet was nest  
To such a kingly bird. But who I pray  
Are those experienced heads you talk of? what?  
Is that Tongue-valiant Cicero worth the fear  
Of 〈◊〉 Antony?  
No doubt but he who has of late divorced  
His Wife Terentia, and in her place  
Made a young 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉, may as soon  
Supplant Antonius, and set up that boy:  
O'twas great policy to exercise  
Himself 〈◊〉 the weaker sex at first;  
Your turn is next: the Hawk thus tries his talons  
Upon some meaner pray, before he ventures  
To 〈◊〉 with the Eagle or the 〈◊〉.  Anton. 
I think Minerva's self 〈◊〉 in thee Fulvia,  
Such words as these might fire the coldest bosom,  
And by strong 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 a heart  
Of 〈◊〉 temper, to a golden Purity.  
Were young Octavius 〈◊〉 an Eagle,  
And nested in the bosom of Great Jove,  
I'd pluck him thence: As for that Cicero,  
My fear, if I had any, should not be  
Pitched on so base an object: I will make  
That Inmate know what 'tis to write my life,  
he'd been as good have 〈◊〉 to the world  
The mystic name of Rome. But let that 〈◊〉  
Proceed to belch his poisonous vomit forth  
At view of light; yet shall his unwashed mouth  
One day repent that biting impudence.  Fulv. 
And there may come a time when Fulvia  
Shall be revenged on his wormwood jeers.  
O how my entrails boil! my heart's on 〈◊〉:  
Had I his damned tongue within my clutches,  
This bodkin should in bloody characters  
Write my revenge.  Ant. 
Come Fulvia, be content,  
Let him triumph, and in his proud conceit  
Frame to himself a conquest great as Jove's  
Over those sons of 〈◊〉, and parallel  
His verbal thunder with the voice of Heaven,  
Yet may I one day be that stronger Typhon  
Shall cut the sinews of his insolence,  
And place thee 〈◊〉 in this Rome's Olympus.  
Come kiss me Sweeting, though the drowsy 〈◊〉  
Have not 〈◊〉 left the bosom of his Thetis,  
Yet here's no nightly shade, for from 〈◊〉 eyes'  
Breaks a more glorious day. I could, my beauty,  
For ever dwell in thy divine embraces,  
But I must leave thee, yea and that before  
Aurora's first blush gilds the East; thou know'st  
My army is sent before unto Ariminum,  
And I must follow; I will have the Province  
Of Decimus 〈◊〉; I, I will, that's certain,  
By fair or foul means; Julius my Colleague  
Returned from Gaul so happily established,  
Great Pompey's 〈◊〉 was 〈◊〉 by his Eagles.  
I know an Army will be soon sent after,  
And war proclaimed against me as an enemy  
To th' State, if once I offer violence  
To Decimus, but I'm resolved, and should  
The whole world rise against me, what drop reg've said  
I'll prosecute to ruin or fruition.  
Only my Fulvia do but thou 〈◊〉  
My foes at home by opposite authority.  
There's Lucius Piso, Lucius 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 Calenus, Salvius, Lucius Caesar,  
〈◊〉 Sulpitius too, and many others  
My special friends: thou Mayst solicit them,  
They'll not be backward in my glorious cause.  
Come I'll go kiss the pledges of our bed,  
And then for mutiny; there my hopes are fed.  Exeunt. 

Chorus.  
IS there such sweetness in 〈◊〉?  
Or is it only fond opinion?   

Is there such pleasure in the height  
Of greatness? or is't mere 〈◊〉?  
Sure if the glories of a throne  
Were in their proper colours shown,  
It would appear the highest place  
Is pleasant only in the face;  
A King is but a royal slave,  
And Rule a vassalage more 〈◊〉;  
A sceptre's but a glorious name,  
A Crown the burden of the 〈◊〉  
Proud front which it 〈◊〉; but Peace  
And 〈◊〉 joy with full increase  
Salute the cottage of 〈◊〉 swain;  
There Quiet 〈◊〉, where 〈◊〉  
Doth six a scornful brow, but where  
The eye of Envy's 〈◊〉, there  
A thousand discontents do dwell,  
O 'tis a second second 〈◊〉.   

Why then, O why, 〈◊〉 Rome,  
Do thy viper's 〈◊〉 thy 〈◊〉,  
To be possessors of a light  
So prejudicial to the sight?   

Unhappy Rome, did Julius 〈◊〉  
For 〈◊〉 Tyranny?  
And must 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
The aims of his Ambitious spirit?   

Yet in this 〈◊〉 happy State,  
That thou hast an Advocate  
Dares plead thy Griefs, and to his face  
Tell thy proud 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 is base.  
Base in his life, and 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉,  
An hater of thy liberty.   

O 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 a Statists worth,  
Let thy matron's carol forth  
His praise, and crown his aged 〈◊〉:  
Not with laurel wreaths, but prayers.  
Long Mayst thou live brave man, & have  
When dead a 〈◊〉 and peaceful 〈◊〉    

Actus secundus.  
Cicero.  

SO now methinks I see our 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Already 〈◊〉 with ruin; he shall know  
Ambition is a precipice, and the sky.  
At which he aims his 〈◊〉 to be too high.  
Were it the cause though 'twere ground enough  
To build a settled confidence upon.  
An honest cause in mouth of ruin sings,  
'Tis the good genius of a State, and brings  
Down Jove himself to side with her: but more  
'Tis Brutus whom Antonius copes with, Brutus  
The Omen of whose very name, and blood  
Fatal to State-usurpers were sufficient  
To 〈◊〉 our drooping souls, and raise 〈◊〉  
From thought of 〈◊〉. But then besides;  
Three Armies have we sent to succour him;  
Two under Aulus Hirtius, and Pansa,  
Our late elected consuls. Young Octavius  
Have we made general of the third; A youth  
Ordained by Heaven to do his country 〈◊〉.  
And yet before this war was brought about,  
What oppositions did I meet withal.  
Piso withstands it, Salvius seconds him,  
The Consular Calenus makes a third.  
The matter is adjourned. Till at the last  
〈◊〉 must be sent to Antony  
To treat of Peace; A thing, in my conceit,  
Of little credit to the senators;  
For what could be more base, more full of 〈◊〉  
Then to send messengers of Peace to him  
Whom, but a little before they had condemned  
As enemy to's country, and republic,  
By several decrees, as 〈◊〉 honours,  
The great Rewards of th' Legions that forsook him,  
Th' Assignment of the Consuls to the wars?  
As also their most ample commendations  
Of Brutus and his Army, which the Province  
Of Gaul did plainly intimate: moreover  
There was great danger in't; for could the City  
Be safe, when it should Antony immure,  
Or rather Antony's within her bosom,  
Which like a nest of Serpents would torment her,  
And never cease to 〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉 stings  
Till they had wrought a passage to the heart?  
Lastly, it was not possible 〈◊〉 should  
Be peace confirmed with him, for not the Senate  
Nor Citizens could affect him, nor he them,  
Both had condemned him, he injured both.  
Well, Legates are dispatched; yet nothing done;  
Antony is still as insolent as ever:  
Then must a second embassy be entered;  
And I am one elected for that service.  
O Heavens! with what distempered wounded eyes  
Should I have looked that Monster in the face?  
Who in a public contion had decreed  
My goods unto Petissius of Vrhin,  
One who but newly from the utter shipwreck  
Of a no mean but rich inheritance  
Was crept 〈◊〉 those Antonian rocks for 〈◊〉  
My tender eyeballs never could have bom  
The hated sight of Saxo, 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉,  
Hostilius and Vesenius. O 〈◊〉 should  
Have seen the very visage and aspect  
Of civil war itself. But this Legation  
Was found at length a 〈◊〉 device and 〈◊〉  
To hinder with delays the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
In preparation for the war. Yet see  
A new 〈◊〉 obtruded M. 〈◊〉  
Our general beyond the Alps, 〈◊〉  
The 〈◊〉 by 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 peace;  
Hereat the former Advocates take heart,  
And plead 〈◊〉 authority of Lepidur,  
As if that plea could quench the zealous flames  
Which were then kindled in the senate's breasts.  
But all in 〈◊〉. Our armies are launched forth  
Against 〈◊〉 Arch-pirate of the State Antonius.  
And now we daily with our prayers solicit  
The ears of heaven to 〈◊〉 the commonwealth  
Of such a dangerous and 〈◊〉 plague,  
Which like a gangrene would run 〈◊〉 and spread  
To the 〈◊〉 of the body politic:  
But to 〈◊〉 down such monsters Jove has thunder,  
And we have arms to press this viper under.   Exit Enter 〈◊〉. Pomp. 
Phillis come 〈◊〉.  Phil. 
〈◊〉.  Pomp. 
Are the rooms  
Perfumed as I commanded?  Phil. 
Yes.  Pomp. 
And all things  
Done as I gave directions?  Phil. 
All things Madam.  Pomp. 
Well.  Exit Phil. 

But I need not be so punctual,  
My Brother Marcus, as he is no stranger,  
So not so curious, as our other Romans.  
As for myself, I'm none of those which waste  
Whole Mornings in the fruitless contemplation  
Of their supposed beauties in a glass;  
I have not learned to paint and 〈◊〉 my face  
With borrowed colours, mine's a native grace,  
And, if it please my Quintus, 'tis enough.  
Nor am I in the list of those which spend  
Their husband's faculties on loose 〈◊〉,  
On rings, and bracelets, or a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
To dangle in my 〈◊〉, my Ornaments  
And jewels are the virtues of my Quintus.   Enter Philologus. Phil. 
Madam, my Lord your Brother's newly entered.  Exit Pomponia, 〈◊〉 Phil. Enter Laureas and Tyro. Laur. 
Here's a triplicity of 〈◊〉  
How does my little 〈◊〉  Phil. 
O Sir the better  
To see your Stoickship in health: but, 〈◊〉,  
What is 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 doing?  Laur. 
〈◊〉 let's see.  
Why, poring on a fragment of 〈◊〉  
The Grandsire( as he calls him) of Historiaus  
A kind of vermin he's enamoured with:  
And he himself has got an 〈◊〉 humour  
To be of that fraternity.  Phil. 
I' faith!  
Nay then 〈◊〉 furnish him, Most learned Tyro  
Have you not heard the news?  Tyro. 
Ha. News? What news?  Phil. 
Why 'tis reported, and that credibly.  
How Atlas being weary of his burden,  
As sure he well may be, and if you ever  
Beheld his picture with that mighty globe  
Upon his back, he looks but sourly 〈◊〉:  
Well, Atlas being weary as I told you,  
To ease his shoulders, lifted up his arm,  
Some say it was his right arm, some his left,  
But that's not so material; you observe!  
Lifting his arm above his head to keep  
The sphere a while from's back, he 〈◊〉 to thrust  
His thumb into a star, and 〈◊〉 it off.  Laur. 
Tyro. he's misinformed; 'twas thus old boy.  
About the time when the all-seeing Sun  
Mounted the raging 〈◊〉 back, this Atlas,  
This living column of the arched 〈◊〉,  
Distilling from his hot and sweeting brows  
As much Salt waters as might turn a Sea  
Fresh as our Tiber, to a brinish sourness.  
And truly, were that scorching season constant,  
Well might the Nation of Philosophers  
Cease their intestine broils about the saltness  
Of the vast Ocean, and determine safely  
The sweat of Atlas were the genuine cause.  
Well Atlas sweltering, as I said, and sending  
Whole clouds of vapours from his hoiling entrails,  
Erects his brawny arm, and so sustains  
That azure fabric, while he stoops to reach  
A draught or two of Nilus in his palm;  
But as he stoops, he thus behind him throws  
His leg, and by ill fortune popped his foot  
Into the hot Trinacrian hill; and so  
( O sad dystaster!) burnt his little toe.  Ty. 
I thought your Mount at length would be 〈◊〉  
Of a ridiculous Mouse. But what's this all?  Phil. 
Ay, there's enough at once, too much will glut you  〈◊〉. 
Glut me! by Castor I'm as lank and thin  
As if chameleon-like I had been fed  
Of nought but air. This have I only chewed on  
Since( to usurp Laureas inspired Notion)  
The Sun 〈◊〉 up his 〈◊〉 Teem from the  
Blushing Ocean.  Laur. 
How the Rogue hobbles! 'slight he makes the muse's  
Halt, and their God Apollo 〈◊〉 on crutches.  Phil. 
No matter Laureas, you must attribute it  
To th' faintness of his stomach, which I'll quicken  
With some supply. Stay here, while I go in,  
And if I meet with an extravagant Capon,  
Or some such Pilgrim, I'll direct him hither.  Laur. 
Well said; but Sirrah, you know what I love,  
A cup of rich Falern, you Rogue, or some  
Extracted Nectar of the Formian grape.  Phil. 
I'll furnish you immediately.  Exit. Laur. 
I wonder  
What foolish humour Pindarus was in,  
When he begun his Poems with the praise  
Of that weak Element Water: 'slight blind Homer  
Was an old Soker at it, and the Father  
Of our brave Roman laureates 〈◊〉,  
Before he dipped his sacred quill in blood,  
Would steep his brains in this Castalian liquor;  
Drenched in this juice he could more proudly look  
Bellona in the face, then ere 〈◊〉  
Dipped by his Mother in the Stygian lake.  Enter Philologus. Laur. 
So soon Philologus?  Tyro. 
What's here?  Phil. 
Why, Tyro,  
The 〈◊〉 of a martyred quartered Goose.  Tyro. 
I thought introth this would be one of your  
〈◊〉 pilgrims; for it is reported,  
That 〈◊〉 have travailed on their 〈◊〉 to Rome  
Even from the marshes of the 〈◊〉.  
What bird is this? 'tis a young Goose I 〈◊〉.  Laur. 
How, a young Goose?  Phil. 
He's one that said so rather.  Tyro. 
No Rogue, I'll leave that title to Philosophers,  
With whom the 〈◊〉 are so enamoured.  
For I have read in story of one 〈◊〉,  
Of your bald tribe affected by a Goose,  
With such 〈◊〉 ardent zeal; that day and night  
Abroad, at home, at board, and in his bed,  
She would be with him: and I am persuaded  
There are but few of that profession  
Can leap a Span from Goose.  Laur. 
The Rogue's satirical.  Tyro. 
Nay there are Poets too of this 〈◊〉.  
Know you not Anser, he who sings the praise  
Of Antony in verse?  Laur. 
And witty too.  Phil. 
But 'tis a Partridge Tyro.  Tyro. 
Hall a Partridge.  Laur. 
Come leave this prattle, he will tell you now  
How Mulciber the Ferrian Prince was Hawking,  
And a poor Partridge, such a one 〈◊〉 this,  
Mewted in's mouth, only for sincere dread  
Of the pursuing Hawk: but you young rascal  
Here's that has life in't.  Phil. 
Come.  Drinks to Philolog. Phil. 
Historical Tyro.  Drinks to Tyro, Tyro takes it, Tyro. 
What's this?  Laur. 
'Tis wine, pure wine.  Tyro. 
But Romulus  
The Father of this City knew not wine,  
Milk was his drink.  Laur. 
That was in Rome's infancy,  
Come drink you coxcomb.  Tyro. 
Ha, methinks it smiles  
Like an ungirdled Maiden.  Laur. 
Are you there?  Phil. 
I see these scribbling. Fablers are sly 〈◊〉  Laur. 
There's my Lord's biting Mastix Sallust, 〈◊〉  
Was found at th' sport.  Phil. 
Ay, and I think belaboured  
To th' purpose for his pains.  Tyr. 
'tis something pleasant.  
'Twere good this Vacuum were again replenished.  Laur. 
Come, come let's fall aboard.  They eat. Tyro. 
I see you Rascals, you are no Pythagoreans.  Phil. 
Why Tyro? we're as still as they.  Tyro. 
'Tis true.  
But they t' enure themselves to abstinence  
Would cause a Table to be richly furuisht  
With costly viands, and then sit them down  
To feast their eyes upon the several dishes,  
But not to 〈◊〉 a bit, for when their mouths  
Had watered long 〈◊〉 the enticing dainties,  
A waiter was commanded to remove,  
And so with empty stomachs all departed.  Laur. 
A fine device to make a living Ghost on.  
But Tyro, Here boy.  Drinks. 
〈◊〉, why 'tis the Soul  
Of History; methinks in this small glass  
I see a Volume of brave Heroes Acts  
In Letters capital: here I read the Trophies  
Of Bacchus fetched from the remotest India;  
Here I peruse the battle of such same,  
Between the Centdures and the Lapathites,  
The sack of Troy, and many other things  
As well recorded in this fluid Monument,  
As in the strongest Adamantine tables.  Tyro. 
I may in time make use of this sweet doctrine  Enter Marcus Cicero, Quintus Cicero, Quintus jun. Laur. 
My Lord by Phoebus.  〈◊〉. 
So, so, I perceive  
You have been at it, 'tis well done, but Tyro  
What news from mutiny? you 〈◊〉 ever wont  
To be 〈◊〉.  Tyr. 
None but this my Lord:  
'Tis for a truth given out, that 〈◊〉  
From the 〈◊〉 Town conveyed a Letter  
To th' Army of the consuls by a kestrel.  Mar. 
How weak alas, to what sinal purpose tend  
The plots of State-usurpers in the end?  
How are 〈◊〉 projects crossed? he thought  
With 〈◊〉 and trenches to cut off intelligence  
Between the consuls and the Town, and spread  
〈◊〉 o'er the surface of the neighbouring river,  
Lest the swift waves should carry Brutus' counsels.  
But all in vain, if through the yielding air  
A winged post his embassy may 〈◊〉.  Enter Pomponia. Pomp. 
Alas, my Lord, the Town is full of uproars,  
Some cry out Antony, some, we are undone;  
Some, 〈◊〉 Brutus' must be called home.  Mar. 
Tyro, Go see whence springs this sad confusion.  Exit. Tyro. Pomp. 
Some answer it is now too late, and others  
Affirm it were best to 〈◊〉 to him for succour.  
There's not a throat but hoarse with cries; An eye  
But drowned in 〈◊〉 of tears. The cause I know not.  
But yet I 〈◊〉.  Mar. 
If Antony have won the day( which heaven  
And heavens all-seeing Monarch Jove forbid)  
We are undone, there is no hope of succour  
Except in Brutus, which must be 〈◊〉  
Not by his coming, but our slight to him,  
Unless the common voice mistakes, and danger  
Be 〈◊〉 so nigh our 〈◊〉, as it 〈◊〉.  
But yet 〈◊〉 soul is quiet, which was ever  
Wont to: 〈◊〉 the common ills  
In her 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Ent. Tyr. Tyro. 
My Lord,  
There is a rumour 〈◊〉 throughout the City  
That 〈◊〉 has overthrown tho consuls,  
And is now coming with his troops to Rome.  Quint. 
Great Jove defend us.  Marc. 
Heaven 〈◊〉 this evil.  Tyr. 
And the Antonians within the City  
Are 〈◊〉 together into 〈◊〉 court.  Mar. 
No doubt to broach some mischief against the State.  Tyro. 
My Lord 'tis broached already; for there's raised  
Another 〈◊〉 without all doubt by those  
〈◊〉 Citizens, only to divert  
The concourse of the people from your Lordship,  
That on the Ides of April you've determined  
T' 〈◊〉 the Fasces.  Cic. 
〈◊〉 thou art deceived,  
〈◊〉 meant some Ambitious thief, or swordplayer,  
Or some new minted Catiline.  Tyr. 
No my Lord;  
You are the man.  Mar. 
O Heavens, that I who ruined  
The counsels of base Catiline, should now  
Turn Catiline myself! is any man  
So lost, so wicked to raise this of me?  
So rash, so furious to believe it? Heavens!  Enter Publius Apuleius. 

Alas good Tribune, how is Cicers wronged?   Apul. 
I know you are, and therefore in a contion  
Before the people have I urged your innocence,  
And partly choked the rumour. I proposed  
All your endeavours for the public State  
Before their censures, and the whole Assembly  
Pronounced they never yet could find you guilty  
So much as of a thought against the welfare  
Of the republic: but what noise is this?  Qu. 
Hark, the late cries are turned to 〈◊〉 methinks.  Quin. jun. 
I hear a cry of Victory in the streets.  Marc. 
Tyro, Go see again, my heart presages  
Some sudden good.  Ex. Tyr. Pomp. 
Hark, hark, the noise increases.  Quint. 
Ay, and approaches 〈◊〉 too methinks.  Apul. 
'Tis at the doors.  Enter Tyro and a Messenger. A shout. Tyro. 
Here's one my Lord can tell you.  〈◊〉. 
The Consuls( worthy Sir) have won the day.  
These will inform you better.  Letters. Cicero reads. Marc. 
Brother Quintus  
A word or two in private. Antony  
Is put to flight, but Hirtius 〈◊〉, and Pansa  
Dangerously wounded; for some private reasons  
Best known unto myself, I will conceal  
The consul's death, which I may do completely,  
For here's a Letter sent from Hirtius  
Unto the Senate of a former victory:  
This will remove suspect.  Shout. Tyro. 
The Roman people  
Wait at the door to bring you to the Capitol.  Mar. 
Thanks to the Gods, this day we'll dedicate  
To Jove and Mars the saviours of our State.  Exeunt. Laur. 
Nay Madam stay, I feel an ecstasy  
Steal through my breast, and sire my pliant soul,  
You shall not go without a Hymn of Victory.  Pomp. 
〈◊〉, Clarinda, Gallu, quickly come,  
Laureas begin, and these shall sing the 〈◊〉.  

The Song.  

Have you not beard the Cities cry,  
How the people vent their joys  
In the welcome welcome noise  
Of victory?  
The Capitol returns their shout again,  
As if itself would 〈◊〉 their joyful strain.   

Chorus.  
Let Echo sing with long-spun 〈◊〉,  
And Philmels 〈◊〉 from their lubric throats;  
Let Hills rebound,  
And valleys sound  
Io triumph.   

The streets are filled with cheerful glee,  
And the common mirth is shown  
In the pleasant pleasant 〈◊〉  
Of Liberty;  
For now our Consuls have delivered Rome,  
And the disturber of her peace overcome.   

Chorus.  
Let Echo sing with, etc,   

Great Jove we bless thy Palronage;  
By whose high auspice Rome is saved  
The Roman State, and kept unslaved  
From inbred rage.  
And Mars we praise thee, by whose aid have stood  
The Roman walls so long, though built in blood.   

Chorus.  
Let Echo sing with long-spun notes,  
And Philmells carol from their lubric throats;  
〈◊〉 Hills rebound,  
And valleys sound  
Io triumph.    Exeunt. Enter Senate. A shout. Cicer. 
Honoured and Conscript Fathers, if those days  
Appear to us with far more welcome rays  
Wherein we 〈◊〉 preserved, than those wherein  
To breathe this common air we first begin,  
Because our safeties have a sure fruition  
Of gladness, but our births a frail condition,  
And that we do our safeties entertain  
With pleasure, but Nativities with pain:  
How ought we then t'embrace this happy light  
Which has redeemed us from that sad 〈◊〉  
Raised by domestic furies? yet we will not  
Return unto our civil robes, till tidings  
Be brought of Brutus safety, for this war  
Was undertaken for his 〈◊〉 and succour,  
Against those enemies of the State, and is not  
Complete but with his freedom first recovered.  Servilius. 
Although I am not Cicero of your mind  
Concerning the retaining of this robe  
Of war, yet I determine public prayer  
Be made to all the Gods for twenty days  
In the three general's names.  Cic. 
Which twenty days  
Publius Servilius I enhance to fifty,  
Since they are granted not to one but Three,  Pise. 
But, M. Tullius, my opinion is  
This day to put our civil garments on,  
And to resume the Sage again to morrow.  Calenus. 
And 'tis my judgement too.  Cic. 
Yes, 'twould be grateful  
To the immortal Deities to depart  
To put the Sage on from their hallowed 〈◊〉  
To which we came 〈◊〉 in 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
'Twere most enormous, and against Religion.  Calen. 
Then 〈◊〉 your terms are too too 〈◊〉  
You brand them with the name of 〈◊〉  
'Tis too severe a style. We will allow them  
To be called wicked and audacious Citizens,  
But not their country's foes; and for this cause  
The consuls Hirtius, Pansa, with 〈◊〉  
Are not to be entitled generals.  Cic. 
If the Antonians are not enemies,  
Then 'twas a great 〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉 them;  
And if it were impiety to slay them,  
How can we hope our solemn supplication,  
Decreed for their destruction, should be pleasing  
To the immortal Delties? But Calenus  
Know I am not contented with a word  
Of such a slight conceit; if any man  
Will furnish me with one of deeper 〈◊〉,  
I'll burn't into their names; for even by those  
Which spilt their sacred blonds for us at mutiny  
I know they do deserved. As for the consuls  
And young Octavius whom we made our Chiefs,  
Their brave deserts have made them generals,  
For now that Prince of outlaws is or thrown;  
The very Sun was happy, which before  
He hide his beams, beheld the breathless trunks  
Of those dead Parricides, and Antony  
For very fear with few Associates fly.  
Therefore I thus 〈◊〉, That in the names  
Of the Three generals, fifty days together  
Be supplications made, which I will frame  
In the most ample words I can contrive.  
Then for the Legions, we renew the promise  
Of their rewards, which we decreed before,  
Should be performed when the war was 〈◊〉:  
But as for those which perished in the battle,  
We will the Pensions were decreed for them  
Be( as 'tis just and requisite they should 〈◊〉)  
Paid to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, Brothers, Wives and children.  
Some of the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 to our grief  
But their own glory fell with Victory.  
O happy death which being nature's due,  
Was for their country's welfare 〈◊〉 you  
〈◊〉 your glorious names from Mars, that he  
Who for the Nations good did Rome decree,  
Might 〈◊〉 to have ordained you for Rome's.  
Fame 〈◊〉 erect you Mausolaean tombs:  
Death caught in flight is backed with 〈◊〉,  
'tis glorious to die with Victory;  
For in the fight Mars to oblige the rest,  
Is wont for pledges to select the best.  
Therefore those impious foes whom you have slain,  
In hell now suffer their deserved pain;  
But you who poured forth your latest spirit  
In 〈◊〉 Victory, shall now 〈◊〉  
Those blessed fields where pious souls are sainted.  
What though your lives were short? they were untainted.  
And the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of your deaths shall climb  
Beyond the 〈◊〉 of all 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Therefore most 〈◊〉 while you lived, but now  
Most holy Soldiers it goes well with you,  
Your 〈◊〉 virtues shall not clauded lie  
In the 〈◊〉 dungeon of 〈◊〉  
Not your surviving 〈◊〉, but all Rome,  
Senate and People shall erect your tomb;  
There shall be built? 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
With words engraven, whose 〈◊〉 shall present  
Your deeds unto eternity; that they  
Which see that 〈◊〉 and read your acts, may say  
These 〈◊〉 the men that loved their country's good,  
And bought her 〈◊〉 with their dearest blood;  
And 〈◊〉 for 〈◊〉 of their 〈◊〉  
Have 〈◊〉 a crown of Immortality.  Exeunt omnes. A 〈◊〉. 

Chorus.  
How wildly Fortune sports with 〈◊〉? now  
She shows a face as black as Night,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 her 〈◊〉 my brow,  
And 〈◊〉 Apollo's light.   

We float upon the surface of this Main,  
Now sinking into Scylla's jaws,  
Anon we check our fears again  
With hope and comforts 〈◊〉 laws.   

The world's great 〈◊〉, the blind Queen of Chance,  
A fairer pattern never drew  
Of her own unconstant glance,  
Than our Native Room 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.   

Alas! how did we whilom fear the 〈◊〉  
Done in the poor Brundisium?  
When Caesar with maturer haste  
Strikes all those bleeding sorrows dumb.   

Then what a sad confused distraction late  
With horror did surprise our ears?  
How each heart did antedare  
A tempest in their troubled fears?   

When on a sudden( 〈◊〉 Jove be praised)  
The welcome news of Victory  
Serened those storms, and shouts are raised  
Which echoed from th' harmonious sky.   

O may this fleeting fickle goddess here  
Securely softly sit her down,  
And sleep as long as Phoebe's dear  
On towering Latmus' sacred crown.   

O that the wakeful Genius of this place  
Would but present her with a 〈◊〉  
From Lethe fetched, might make her 〈◊〉  
Forget its frown, and feet their motion.   

Now Rome is Mars his darling Aphrodite;  
O that some Deity would set  
To take them in this happy plight  
A lasting 〈◊〉 net!   

Listen Great 〈◊〉 with what devotion sings  
The Voice of newborn liberty;  
O that some God would clip the wings  
Of unconstant Victory!    

Actus tertius.  Enter Antony in a morning gown; the hair of his head and beard very long and unkembed. 〈◊〉. An. 
COme fellow Sold. cheer your drooping spirits,  
Behold the camp of Lepidus. This weed  
Black as my Fortunes, these unkembed locks,  
This rusty long-grown 〈◊〉, this meager visage,  
Emblems of my distress, might make the bowels  
Of ravenous Wolves and tigers yearn with pity,  
But they are Romans, and have Roman hearts;  
Come, come, the day may shine, when with 〈◊〉  
We shall recount the sorrows of this 〈◊〉;  
When by our fires, in bosom of our wives,  
Our children too, and faithful friends about 〈◊〉  
We shall discourse unto their greedy ears  
Our travails through the Alps, and glory 〈◊〉 them,  
How every weary step presented us  
With some new precipice; how we eased our limbs  
Not on the soft repose of downy beds,  
But on a frigid and congealed heap  
Of snowy fleeces, with some 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
To be our pillow. You shall 〈◊〉 deride  
The Roman pomp, and when you see an ear  
Hung with a jewel, tell them 'twas not so  
With you, when whilom on the Alpine 〈◊〉  
Your hairs were linked with chains of dangling 〈◊〉;  
What a brave glory will't be at a feast,  
Amongst th' abundance of the Roman 〈◊〉,  
To tell them how your welcome drink was me  
Not the sweet Nectar of the 〈◊〉 grape,  
Or Formian wines presented in a cup  
Of Gold engraven with antics, or in crystal  
Prized more for its fragility 〈◊〉 worth?  
But, that which once Darius so esteemed,  
The muddy water of a tainted puddle  
〈◊〉 with a hollow 〈◊〉 into your mouths;  
And that your Viands were not 〈◊〉 oysters,  
The dainties of Cercei, or wild fowl  
Procured as far as from the River Phasis,  
But beasts whose stinking flesh would make 〈◊〉 stomach  
Of your luxurious citizen disgorge,  
Roots, wild fruit, and the very barks of trees.  
Thus faithful Partners of my travails shall we  
Solace ourselves, when these unwelcome clouds  
Are blown away. I'm now to throw the Dice,  
Pray heaven the chance 〈◊〉 good; Retire you something.  〈◊〉 Soldiers. Enter Soldiers as in Lepidus camp. 1 Sold. 
What discontented 〈◊〉 is this approaches  
Our trenches in this mournful garb and habit?  2 Sold. 
By Mars he looks like a Memento mori.  3 Sold. 
Sure I have seen thy face.  Ant. 
You have no doubt.  
And if my eyes deceive me not, I see  
Clodius and Laelius there among you, Two  
That would have known me once.  Clod. 
It may be so.  〈◊〉. 
But if we cannot call you now to mind,  
I hope you will impute it to your habit  
And our forgetfulness, but not to pride,  
Or scorn of misery.  Ant. 
No I do not Laelius.  
For I may well seem strange to 〈◊〉, who am  
Grown almost out of knowledge with myself;  
Yet have I not forgot my Name, which while  
I was more happy was Antonius.  Clod. 
Alas, I know you 〈◊〉 to my grief.  Ant. 
But now I will not 〈◊〉 that name,  
For being fallen from what I was, I must not  
Make myself what I 〈◊〉 Alas I thought not,  
Then when Antonius was Antonius,  
Fortune would ere malign me so as make me  
An eyesore to myself. Brave Romans, here  
You see a wretch thrown from the height of greatness  
To feed on carrion, and, in fellowship  
Of Beasts, drink water out of tainted quagmires.  
Some remnants of my Army are surviving  
Which have with many a weary step past o'er  
The rugged Alps, and here attend the sentence  
Of life or ruin from your 〈◊〉.  Omnes. 
Alas!  Enter Lepidus. Lep. 
How's this? Antonius in a mourning habit  
Close at my Trenches, and with fawning words  
At parley with my 〈◊〉? Sound the 〈◊〉,  
And drown this Sirens language, or we're lost.  Ex. Trumpets sound. Anton. 
I had but two poor Engines by whose help  
I thought the fortress of these soldier's hearts  
Might be subdued, my habit and my speech;  
And one's already frustrate, 'tis no matter.  
Though with this more than Corybantian noise  
My words are swallowed, yet my miseries  
Shall speak as loud as thunder in the ears  
Of these relenting Romans, for I see  
Tokens of pity in their looks, well here  
Like a decayed statue will I stand  
And speak a mute Oration, that may chance  
Advance my hopes to th' height of 〈◊〉 fruition.  〈◊〉 soldiers as in Lep. 〈◊〉. 1 Sold. 
See where he stands.  2 Sold. 
Is that Antonius?  1 Sold. 
The same, or rather not the same Antonius.  3 Sold. 
'Fore Jove 'tis pity, he's a proper man.  4 Sold. 
Me thinks he looks vile thin about the gills.  2 Sold. 
He stands by Heaven like a mercurial Index.  4 Sold. 
Even such a meager face for all the world  
Has Saturn's statue in the Capitol.  Enter Clodius and Laelius in women's attire. 4 Sold. 
But stay, what's here, a brace of Cockatrices?  
Whither so fast, my pretty mincing Damsels?  
We must not part thus, Come, come.  Clod. 
Say you so?  With a box on the ear strikes him down Soldiers. 
Ha, ha, ha!  4 Sold. 
What female devil trow was't? by Jove  
My ear's as hot as limping Vulcan's anvil.  Soldiers. 
Ha, ha!  Exeunt. Clod. 
Now, Noble Antony, I see we are  
As much unknown to you in this disguise,  
As you to us, when first you did appear  
So far unlike our late renowned Consul;  
But Sir to put you out of doubt I'm Clodius.  Lael. 
And I am Laelius.  Clod. 
Both come to recomfort  
Your wretched fortunes.  Ant. 
Friends I can but thank you.  Lael. 
'Tis more than we deserve yet.  Ant. 
'Tis as much  
As my forlorn estate can now afford.  Lael. 
Your state's forlorn no longer than you please,  
Take heart, the camp is ready to receive you.  Clod. 
Ay, and to kill the general Lepidus  
If you'll but say the word.  Ant. 
Again I thank you,  
And will not die a debtor; nay I must  
Die both a debtor, and ungrateful too.  
The courtesy's so great, my best endeavours  
Will be too feeble ever to requite it.  
Yet shall the general Lepidus live for me,  
I will not raise my fortunes by his fall.  Clod. 
Then Sir to morrow morning shall our camp  
Expect you with your Soldiers, and the Trench  
Be leveled against your coming.  Ant. 
Clodius,  
And Laelius the restorers of my life,  
I were a foe my own happiness,  
And which is more, respectless of your kindness,  
If I should fail.  Clod. 
Then Antony till then  
Farewell.  Ant. 
Farewell, farewell good Laelius.  Ex. Clod. & Lael. 
Why now methinks I'm Antony again;  
I gratulate my Alpine travails now.  
Who in a state so hopeless as was mine  
Would not for such an issue feed on dogs,  
Or cats, or worse than both an age together?  
Well I'll unto my fellow travellers,  
This news will make them frolic. Thus the day  
Ushered with darkness sends the sweeter ray.  Exit. Enter Caesar. 
Now Caesar summon thy whole self, thou art  
But yet a stripling, and must arm thyself  
With providence unknown in these few years.  
The Senators, those Nestor's of the State,  
Disturb the fair praeludium of my Glories:  
They have created Decimus their general  
Against Antonius, robbed me of my Triumph,  
And jealous of my fortunes, closely practise  
To win the Soldiers from me, but I am not  
So weak a Politician, on such 〈◊〉  
To part with these fair hopes: if this contempt  
Be cast upon me, Antony yet living,  
What would they do if he were once extinguished?  
Well I'll no longer be deluded thus.  
I'll do what Pansae on his deathbed wished nigh,  
Even this, acquaint myself with Antony,  
And Lepidus, to whom no doubt he is joined.  
Then will I send Centurions to the Senate,  
To ask for me in name of the whole Army  
The Consulship. If't be denied, I am determined  
To march myself to Rome, and gain by force  
What fair means cannot win. They who intend  
Betimes to compass their wished journey's end  
Must take the day before'em; so must I,  
Set forth at morning of my age, and ply  
My youthful sinews in this task of glory,  
Crowning my spring with harvest, that the story  
Of Caesar's forward years, may be as bright  
As others lives, and send as fair a light.  Exit. Enter M. Cicero, and his brother Quint. Mar. 
Brother, I'm much perplexed about this Caesar,  
He has so fixed his hopes upon the Consulship  
there's no removing him.  Quint. 
I always feared,  
What the Immoderate honours which the Senate  
Conferred upon him would at length produce.  
For if Antonius from deceased Caesar,  
Took his occasion to usurp the State;  
What hope, may we suppose, will he put on  
The Author of whose confidence is not  
A murdered Tyrant, but the senate's self?  
And truly brother you are to be blamed  
For the same flux of honours with the rest.  Mar. 
Why Quintus, he deserved them and more  
While he stood constant to his country's cause;  
As for myself, the dignity which I  
Decreed him, was but just and necessary;  
For you well know the name of general,  
Though it was somewhat too much for his age,  
Is not convenient only, but essential  
To the well governing of so great an Army.  
Now since Octavius has abused both that  
And other favours, 'tis his own ambition  
And not my fault, unless I must be 〈◊〉  
As guilty of another misdemeanours.  Quint. 
You must, if you might have prevented it,  
Which moderation would have done. But now  
That Caesar who( as you were wont to say)  
Flowed from the fountain of your counsels, sullies  
All your intendments; for alas what good,  
What profit gain we by the overthrow  
Of Antony, since for reward Octavius  
Requires succestion in his Tyranny?  
Since he who vindicated one, begins  
Himself another ill, as black as that,  
And like to take a deeper root 〈◊〉 footing?  Mar. 
Nay, prithee Quintus, do not aggravate.  
The youth I hope is not so lost to goodness,  
So desperately given, but I may win him  
To have some pity on the State, to tender  
The safeties of well-minded Citizens,  
Especially of my beloved Brutus.  Quint. 
What if he will not? shall we not 〈◊〉 safe  
But under his protection? Heaven defend us,  
What would the noble Brutus say of this,  
Should he but hear it, do you think he'd 〈◊〉  
His Safety should be so demissely begged  
Of him that's heir to Julius, whom he slew?  
Why now you put the reins of Tyranny  
Into his hand, and indiscreetly kindle  
The fire already glowing in his breast.  
he'll raise his thoughts to fancy certainties,  
And hasten to maturity what yet  
Is scarce 〈◊〉 in th' womb of his 〈◊〉;  
When he perceives the authors of our liberty  
Commended to his care, and that by you  
Who have been hitherto the 〈◊〉 prop  
And pillar of it. Why consider Mark  
The very name of Caesar 〈◊〉 incite him  
Against those which 〈◊〉 his uncle.  Mar. 
Cease Good Quintus,  
You 〈◊〉 me too severely.  Enter Tyro. Tyro. 
My Good Lord,  
The Centiner Cornelius, from the general  
Octavius Caesar waits to speak with you.  Mar. 
He must be mildly handled.  Quint. 
As you please.  〈◊〉. 
Well, bring him in.  Exit Tyro. Enter again Tyro with 〈◊〉. Corn. 
The general Octavius  
Salutes your Lordship not by me alone  
But by these Letters.  Delivers and Cic. reads. 
Sir I must entreat you  
In name of the whole Army to repair  
To th' Senate.  Cic. 
Yes Cornelius I will,  
And glad I am to hear the noble Caesar  
Is in good health.  Corn. 
Farewell my Lord.  Cic. 
Farewell.  Exit Cornelius. Marc. 
Brother here's that I feared so much, there are  
Four hundred Soldiers in the army's name  
Come to entreat for him the Consulship.  
'Tis Caesar's own device I fear, although  
He makes it not his, but the army's suit.  
What's your advice?  Quint. 
Why are you doubtful brother?  
Ne'er give your voice, lest what you have archieved  
Against Antonius now degenerate  
From the fair glory of a valiant mind,  
To an opinion of slavish fear;  
Nay worse, 'twill occasion to the world  
To brand you with 〈◊〉, and say  
Your deeds have tended not to root out Tyranny,  
But rather to obtain a milder Master.  
You know the times; a Magistrate is made,  
Do what he can, the common mark of slander;  
The best State-pilots oft are overwhelmed  
With the foul sea of an opprobrious mouth;  
Their virtues branded with the name of Vice,  
Their diligence of deceit; but to consent  
To this Ambitious suit for Caesar, were  
〈◊〉 expose yourself to a deserved censure  
And such a one would taint your worthiest actions.  Exeunt. 〈◊〉 Tyro. Takes out a Table-book, and writes, Cal. 
Sex. An. ab urb. cond. D. CC. XX. Cornelius with other Centurions and soldiers, to the number of 400 came in the behalf of the whole army to Rome, to ask of the Senate the Office of consul for their general Octavius Caesar.  

Now, as it is the custom of Histoxians,  
Let me a little descant on this business.  
There is a whispering rumour, that Octavius.  
Slew Hirtius in the tumult of the battle,  
And poisoned Pansa at Bononia,  
By his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉; now methinks,  
This sudden suit for th' Consulship confirms,  
At least makes more suspicious that report.  
Nay more, I hear he's reconciled to Antony  
Upon a sudden; this is something too.  
I know not what will follow; but 'tis doubtful.  
So, now I 〈◊〉 not, if I go and read  
Two or 〈◊〉 pages of that liquid 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 to me by my cousin 〈◊〉.   Enter Senate, Cornelius and 〈◊〉. Cornel. 
My Lords the Senators, we here are come,  
〈◊〉 ask for 〈◊〉 our victorious general,  
In the behalf and 〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉 Army,  
The Office of the Consul, and expect  
Your present answers to our just request.  
We hope 〈◊〉 Age will be no greater bar  
To him, 〈◊〉 it has been before to others,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 but yet a youth, and 〈◊〉  
No more, when they were both created consuls,  
And yet the State 〈◊〉 them of 〈◊〉.  
We might 〈◊〉 the examples of great 〈◊〉  
And Dolabella, but we hope 'tis needless.  Cent. 
〈◊〉 speaks the language of us all.  Cor. 
And the whole Army, Fathers, speaks in us.  〈◊〉. 
〈◊〉 is your counsel 〈◊〉?  1 Sen. 
Marcus Tullius  
Our 〈◊〉 at stake 〈◊〉 my opinion.  
And would be ruined should we grant the suit.  2 Sen. 
〈◊〉 palpable.  3 Sen. 
We must not give such 〈◊〉  
To this 〈◊〉 Youth.  4 Sen. 
I know not one  
〈◊〉 all our Order will 〈◊〉 unto it.  5 Sen. 
The Tribunes are against it.  Cic. 
〈◊〉 too?  5 Sen. 
Ay, he especially.  6 Sen. 
And I.  All. 
And All.  Cic. 
〈◊〉 him good Minutius.  Min. 
The Senators 〈◊〉 all 〈◊〉 the Army  
To be a while contented with the honours  
Already he 〈◊〉 on your general,  
The worth/ Caesar, and the state's 〈◊〉.  
When they shall judge it timely and convenient  
He shall, I know't 〈◊〉, have both 〈◊〉,  
And other dignities with a full hand.  
While others rule, yet those that 〈◊〉 obey  
Are no 〈◊〉 part o'th' commonwealth then they.  Cor. 
〈◊〉 you may keep your sentences,  
〈◊〉 they nor your fair language shall persuade us  
To leave the prosecution of our suit.  
〈◊〉 seems the Conscript Fathers are against it;  
〈◊〉 this shall do it, if the Senate Will not.  〈◊〉 them the pommel of his sword. Minut. 
〈◊〉 traitorous 〈◊〉 dost 〈◊〉 threaten us?  Exeunt Cornel. & Cent. 1 Sen. 
〈◊〉 this?  〈◊〉 Sen. 
So boisterous? then I 〈◊〉 a storm.  〈◊〉. 
A 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Min. 
〈◊〉 heavy 〈◊〉  
Must we expect from Caesar's Consulship  
Whose 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 thus check this sacred Order?  Exeunt. Enter Pomponia, Philologus. Pomp. 
What is the Senate yet broke up Philologus?  Phil. 
Yes, newly Madam.  Pomp. 
Where's my Husband Quintus?  Phil. 
Gone but t' accompany my Lord your Brother  
Home to his house, he will be with you straight,  
For so he bade me tell you.  Pomp. 
'Tis enough.  Exit 〈◊〉 
Why what a piece of idle Vanity,  
Is Woman to be so inquisitive?  
My ear now itches, till I hear th' affairs  
Debated in the Senate.— I have read  
A very pretty fiction now I think on't;  
How the first mover, being, cause, or Nature,  
Or Fate or Fortune, call him what you will,  
When he first framed 〈◊〉 fondling sex of Women  
In his Promethean shop, did form the Heart,  
The Mind, the Soul, or whatsoever you call  
That inner Pilot of this 〈◊〉 Clay,  
Of strange and various matters, whence they did  
Derive their as strange qualities and conditions:  
A slut was form of as foul a sow;  
A subtle Huswife of a crafty fox;  
A gluttonous and lazy Crone of earth;  
A woman turning like a weathercock,  
With the fond wind of cross and foolish 〈◊〉,  
Smiling and frowning ofttimes in an hour,  
As false as winter sunshine or a shower  
In summer, was composed of the Ocean.  
And so of all the rest, but she whose 〈◊〉  
Tingle as mine with this inquisitive itch,  
Had, as the Fable fancies, for her 〈◊〉  
A dog; but yet methinks I cannot find  
Myself in all this brood; for though I have  
A fond desire to hear, yet say I little,  
I bark not, mine's 〈◊〉 harmless folly which  
Is never like to change me to a bitch  
As't did the Trojan 〈◊〉.  Exit. Enter 〈◊〉 and Fulvia. Pi. 
Come, Fulvia, cease these sorrows, for thy husband  
Has now shaken off the chains that kept him down,  
The frozen Alps have brought him to a Fortune  
Which may weigh down the thought of past afflictions;  
He's fellow general with Lepidus,  
Nay, he alone rules all, and Lepidus  
Has but the naked name and title only;  
And now they have repast the Alps together,  
With seventeen 〈◊〉, as I am informed,  
Besides ten thousand horsemen; nay Octavius  
And he are now for ever reconciled;  
Here's that will add Authority to my 〈◊〉.  Delivers a Letter. She reads. Fulv. 
Octavius is our own; confirmed, 〈◊〉.  
By a more natural tie then Friendship.  Piso. 
How!  Fulv. 
He must now call me 〈◊〉 for the daughter  
Of Fulvia is decreed his Spouse.  Piso. 
indeed!  Fulv. 
Ay, and Octavius too has past the Rubicon,  
And is now 〈◊〉 hither with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
So Cicero I think has lost his 〈◊〉.  
Now shall my Husband Antony, and I  
Be for his stabbing jeers at length revenged.  
Piso I thank you, all my cares are vanished.  Exit. Piso. 
This woman's now secure, but I 〈◊〉 eyes  
Which stay 〈◊〉 at the Superficies,  
But pierce to th' centre and the 〈◊〉 of things.  
I am afraid this friendship is 〈◊〉,  
And but to compass his own ends. He creeps  
Into acquaintance with Autonius,  
That by his aid I doubt himself may 〈◊〉  
A good success to his Ambitious 〈◊〉;  
As first to seat himself 〈◊〉 th' Consulship,  
Next to root out the 〈◊〉 Chiefs  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Cassius; but will this be all?  
Will he sit still and on this height 〈◊〉  
To six the pillar of his hopes? No, no,  
Ambition cannot brook Plurality.  
Only one Neptune in the Sea doth 〈◊〉,  
One Jove in Heaven, and but one Dis in Hell:  
Heaven, Hell, and raging Sea have each but one,  
And He or Antony must rule alone.  Ex. Enter Salvius, Cicero. Salv. 
〈◊〉 good Cicero, 〈◊〉 not 〈◊〉 to you  
Nor love unto Antonius that I did it,  
But pure devotion to my country's cause.  Cic. 
But my 〈◊〉 hate of Antony  
( I now confess it) blinded my discretion,  
And carried me too 〈◊〉  
Unto this dangerous planting of Octavius.  Salv. 
'Twas that I feared, and therefore did withstand you.  
You favoured Caesar, and maintained his youth  
In opposition of Antonius,  
Lest Antony should get the upper hand;  
I favoured Antony, and opposed your counsels,  
Lest Caesar should ascend too high a pitch;  
Your aim was to beat down a reigning 〈◊〉,  
Mine to keep down springing Ambition;  
Yours to oppress Antonius culminant,  
Mine to suppress rising 〈◊〉; both  
Good in th' intent, though in 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Cicer. 
Sure some superior power has ordered this,  
And made us instruments of our own subversion;  
But this afflicts me most, that these 〈◊〉  
Should happen at a season so unfortunate,  
When Brute and Cassius' are so far remote,  
Nor furnished neither to oppose such 〈◊〉.  Enter Apuleius. 

You look, good Tribune, as if horror dwelled  
Upon your brows; what tidings Apuleius?   Apul. 
My Lord Octavius is directly coming  
To th' City with an Army of 〈◊〉 Legions;  
Antonius too and Lepidus are come  
With mighty forces into Italy  
Only with this intent, to second Caesar;  
The streets are filled with tumult and 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 run about not knowing what to do,  
Others remove their 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉  
Into out-villages, or stronger places  
Within this City.  Salv. 
Heaven defend us, Cicero,  
Alas we are undone.  Apul. 
The Senate, Sir,  
Is now in consultation of some course  
Whereon to pitch. Your presence is expected.  Cic. 
No doubt it is; but 〈◊〉 absent myself,  
The Conscript Fathers may themselves 〈◊〉  
What's best in this necessitating 〈◊〉  
For their own safeties, I should say the States,  
But there the choice is crossed; as for myself  
Nothing can come amiss. I'v lived too long  
To see this day. The Fathers forced to 〈◊〉  
( As now they must) to th' ruin of their liberty:  
O 'tis a corrosive to my soul to think on't.  
'Twere good you two would 〈◊〉 and take your 〈◊〉  Both. 
We will, and that with speed; Farewell.  Cic. 
Farewell.  Ex Enter Senate. 1 Sen. 
We must be speedy Fathers. What's counsels?  2 Sen. 
'Twere best in my opinion to dispatch  
A message to him to present him with  
The Consulship.  3 Sen. 
Ay, that's the 〈◊〉 way.  4 Sen. 
But th' Armies fired for the late 〈◊〉  
How shall we stay their 〈◊〉?  2 Sen. 
we'll decree  
To th' whole 8 〈◊〉 so much in  
As we have promised to the two.  1 Sen. 
How say you?  
Are you content?  Omnes. 
Content! we must of force.  1 Sen. 
See what the Tribunes say 〈◊〉.  Sen. 
They consent,  
Forced by the same 〈◊〉 as we.  1 Sen. 
Come then, let's 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the legates.  Exeunt. Enter Cicero. 〈◊〉. 
How will this royal City now become  
A 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉! and 〈◊〉 senators  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 a 〈◊〉 prey to ravenous talous!  
Will Caesar think himself secure, while men  
So 〈◊〉 addicted to the State survive?  
No; Tyranny's suspicious, 〈◊〉 unhead them,  
Lest happily they should be get young 〈◊〉. Enter 〈◊〉.  
〈◊〉 what news?  Salv. 
What news! why Caesar's Consul.  
〈◊〉 are sent unto him with the offer.  〈◊〉. 
Heavenst what a tide of 〈◊〉 must Rome expect,  
〈◊〉 she must list the 〈◊〉 to her own head?  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 were at home now! we would lose  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 blood, before our liberty.  
〈◊〉 happy you, which in the mutiny seld  
〈◊〉 up your lives! you breathe not with the rest,  
To taint your 〈◊〉 glories with black 〈◊〉  
To your own 〈◊〉 freedom; in soft peace  
Rest your 〈◊〉 souls. But 〈◊〉 we,  
〈◊〉 for one 〈◊〉, now are plagued with three.  Enter Qu. Cicero. Quint. 
〈◊〉, the Afric Legions 〈◊〉 arrived.  〈◊〉. 
〈◊〉 Quintus?  〈◊〉. 
〈◊〉 'tis most certain.  〈◊〉. 
Nay, than we will not on such feeble terms.  
〈◊〉 with our country's freedom, Salvius come.  Exeunt. Enter 〈◊〉. Senator. 
What have we done my Lords? given up our 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 the shedding of one drop of blood?  
'twill grow 〈◊〉 custom for Ambitious men  
T' 〈◊〉 the offices of State, if thus  
The Consulship be made a prey to force;  
Nay rather 〈◊〉 oppose and bear th' assault,  
〈◊〉 Decimus or Plancus come and 〈◊〉 us.  
〈◊〉 fight till our life's 〈◊〉 breath be spent,  
〈◊〉 then 〈◊〉 a gap for 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 before attempted with success.  
〈◊〉 was, 〈◊〉 was that 〈◊〉 once in Rome,  
When her brave Worthies would not stand aghast  
At such a threatened storm as this, but 〈◊〉  
The 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 hand of that 〈◊〉 Jove  
Durst 〈◊〉 once to raise it. 〈◊〉, what  
Have we let 〈◊〉 and rust 〈◊〉 glorious edge  
〈◊〉 that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 or is't only  
〈◊〉 prisoned 〈◊〉 the sheath? let's draw 〈◊〉 out:  
Nor fail 〈◊〉 country, but uphold 〈◊〉 cause,  
While we have hearts, and hands, like trueborn Romans.  Enter 〈◊〉. Cicer. 
Fathers you were too forward 〈◊〉 dispatch  
Of your Legation to Octavius.  
You will repent it.  1 Sen. 
〈◊〉. Tullius, why?  Cic. 
The Afric Legions are arrived.  Sen. 
Arrived!  
Then 〈◊〉 the Messengers be called back.  Ex. Cic. 
Fathers, I need not urge how bright and glorious  
Is zeal unto the common cause. I know  
You prize it as the jewel of your lives,  
And you do well; for 'tis a music which  
Will, like the note of the Caystrian bird,  
Stick by you till 〈◊〉 latest gasp; and than  
Be your good Genius mounting to the skies  
Your winged souls, where being stellified  
You shall with shining optics see how weak  
A nothing is, this molchill earth 〈◊〉  
Poor mortals toil so; there you shall behold  
How feeble, how ridiculous a madness  
Is fond Ambition. But I lose myself  
In this divine and pleasing contemplation,  
Come let's dispose ourselves for opposition.  Senators. 
With all our Hearts. Heaven prosper the attempt.  Exeunt. Enter Caesar, Captains, Soldiers. Caes. 
How's this? the Senate so 〈◊〉? well.  
Cornelius take some certain Horsemen with you,  
Post to the City, and assure the people,  
I come not with intent to raise a tumult,  
But on fair 〈◊〉 of peace; make haste before,  
And I will follow with all speed I can.  Exit. Enter Pomponia and Young Quintus. Pomp. 
So studious Quintus in such times as these?  Quint. 
Yes, Madam, therefore cause the times are such  
Though Caesar be a youth as well as I,  
Yet he is one of deeper undertakings  
Than can be sounded by such heads as mine;  
Pray heaven they puzzle not the piercing judgments  
Of our grave Senators.  Pomp. 
And 'tis my prayer,  
But what is't you are reading?  Quint. 
'Tis a book  
My uncle Marcus 〈◊〉 me to peruse.  Pom. 
You cannot better spend your morning's 〈◊〉  
Then after his prescriptions. Time's a 〈◊〉.  
` A day is like a costly ring of Gold,  
` And morning is the Diamond of that ring  
But tell me something which your book contains  
Worthy our hearing.  Quint. 
Madam, the whole volume  
Is like a gallery hung about with pictures  
Of filial piety. Here on trembling shoulders  
More famed than those of Hercules, which upheld  
The heavenly orbs, one bears his aged father  
Through midst of flames, and so conserves that being  
Which was the Spring of his. Another bears  
Her on his pious back who in her womb  
Bare him. Here one sustains her mother's 〈◊〉  
With the same food wherewith her own first breath  
Was by that mother cherished; these were 〈◊〉  
In nature's heaven, and have now an 〈◊〉  
Not to inhabit only but to rule.  
Yet that which makes me most admire, is this,  
That the mute son of 〈◊〉 should unlose  
The fetters tied by Nature to his tongue,  
And cry, Kill not the King.  Pomp. 
To save our Parents  
Is the first law and dictate Nature writes  
In our heart's 〈◊〉 Tables, therefore did she  
Articulate the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Of his chained tongue, lest by her fault that 〈◊〉  
Should want its force and vigour in the 〈◊〉.  Quint. 
Methinks I envy the example.  Pomp. 
What?  
Would you your father should be so 〈◊〉  
That you might save him?  Quint. 
No, not for a world.  
But who knows what this age doth travail with?  Pomp. 
True. But the 〈◊〉 coheres 〈◊〉 You,  
The heavens be thanked for't, were not 〈◊〉 dumb.  Quint. 
'tis a great benefit; but yet methinks  
I could incarcerate, as he freed his voice,  
To save a father. I could 〈◊〉 by bridling  
As great a name, as he by giving reins  
To stupid nature; such an act would come  
Within the verge of praise, whereas his does not  
Without th' internals.  Pomp. 
Go, you make me sad.  Exit Quintus. 
What Genius has informed my Quintus fancy,  
That he still 〈◊〉 on such examples?  
Pray heaven my husband never prove an object  
For him whereon to exercise this piety.  Exit. Enter M. Cicero. 

Still do I strive against the stream, and like  
A silly 〈◊〉 mount the enraged 〈◊〉,  
Which in I do not poise my actions well  
Will carry me away. We thought the Gods  
By their auspicious providence 〈◊〉 sent  
The Afric Legions to our 〈◊〉; but  
They are revolted from us, and their Captains  
Taken to favour. Only one 〈◊〉  
Scorning to beg life from this second Caesar  
Haslike a second Cato slain himself.  
And I would follow him, but that the good  
And safety of my country is my Remora.  
I will for th' present 〈◊〉 Octavius favour,  
It cannot be a stain to 〈◊〉  
Since all have done't already but myself.   Enter Senators. Sen. 
Have you made peace with Caesar?  Cic. 
I have sued it  
By mediation of his friends, and now  
Wait to accost him, sure he is at hand.  Sen. 
He is indeed; Hark how the people shout.  Shout. Enter Caesar and others. Sen. 
Health to the worthy and victorious 〈◊〉.  Caesar. 
Fathers I thank you.  Cicer. 
Hail to Noble Caesar.  Caes. 
My honered Father 〈◊〉  Cic. 
'tis too high a Title  
For M. Tullius Cicero.  Caes. 
Now you wrong me,  
The Parent of my country must be mine.  
But yet I must be bold to tell you Sir,  
You have been something sparing of your 〈◊〉;  
You are the last of all my Noble friends  
That come to welcome my return from Gaul.  Exeunt. A 〈◊〉. 

Chorus.  
O what awounding shout was this!  
'tis even as baneful as the mandrake's note,  
The shricks of damned souls, the hiss  
Of Scorpions, Adders, or the Sirens throat.  
Let it be strangled, 'tis a sound  
Will wake pale death from his Cimmerian Cell,  
'twill rend a passage through the ground,  
And bring the Furies from their Court of Hell:  
The barbarous Thracians though they sing  
Their dead unto their graves, would howl to see  
So black, so venomous a sting  
Enter the body of their State, as we.  
For these are but Sardonian soniles  
Which dance upon 〈◊〉 brows; this fading mirth  
Will prove an Embryon, and beguiles  
When we shall find it stillborn at the birth.  
O what a golden age w' enjoyed  
Under the Reverend Saturn's of the State!  
But now an upstart 〈◊〉 unboyd,  
Unto an age of iron gives new date.  
What power this ruin on us slings?  
Julius' is turned his Genius, we fear,  
And lent him Tityus Vultures wings  
T' enhance the swiftness of his proud career  
If such a little time as 〈◊〉  
Full 〈◊〉 Summers have a Consul bore  
Of such a growth, so 〈◊〉;  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 we think alas of twenty more?  
Others when 〈◊〉 this sacred way  
Of 〈◊〉, they had travailed but so far,  
Would 〈◊〉 them down, and sagely say,  
Death was 〈◊〉 unto a Consular.  
But this young Minion of 〈◊〉 chance,  
Like a skie-climbing Eagle still will tower  
Until he shall himself advance  
Unto a sovereign Independent power.  
Heavens! if it be your sacred pleasure  
To put a period to our liberty,  
O let the sceptre know some measure,  
That being servile we may yet seem free.    

Actus Quartus.  
M. T. Cicero.  

NOW we are past 〈◊〉, lost sor ever.  
Our new-made Consul, made indeed, but not  
Elected, for Election is an Act  
Of Will net Voice, of an internal 〈◊〉,  
Not outward sound; this Consul, whom our fears,  
Not our Consents or Votes have 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 o'er us like a full and pregnant 〈◊〉  
Ready to pour a tempest on our heads.  
Our forced hands delivered him the Are  
To punish State-maligners, but alas  
He whets it for the necks of our preservers.  
Ay, only I am blamed: 〈◊〉 City;  
They are not 〈◊〉 honours which afflict us,  
But his new- 〈◊〉 friendship with Antonius,  
Which was the only rock my best endeavours  
Were ever pressed t' avoid, lest the republic  
Should suffer 〈◊〉 upon't. I thought the way  
To keep him distant with Antonius,  
Was to advance him to a requisite power  
Of opposition: alas we but conjecture  
And guess at the events of things; our knowledge  
Cannot arrive to an infallible certainty  
Of the success of matters; 'tis a 〈◊〉  
Peculiar only to the Gods, and is  
Derived to us, 〈◊〉 mortals, not by nature,  
But extraordinary participation.  
Since therefore 'tis th' unknown event alone,  
〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 of my soul, which 〈◊〉  
The seeming good appearing in my counsels,  
Why am I made the mark of accusation?  
But 〈◊〉 the custom of the times, I will not  
Deject myself for this; the innocence  
Which I am armed with is enough to raise me  
From such 〈◊〉, but yet I'm 〈◊〉  
For the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of my country's freedom,  
For my Dear 〈◊〉, and the Noble 〈◊〉.  
The other Consul Quintus Pedius  
Has published a decree wherein they're 〈◊〉  
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 than our hearts shall send  
Whole clouds of vapouring sighs to feed new showers.  
But as for fire, they want it not; their 〈◊〉  
Cherish the flame of an unmoved real  
Unto their country's liberty, which cannot  
Be quenched but with their blood; this Caesar knows,  
And therefore that he may with doubled power  
Oppress the heroic bravery of their spirits,  
Has reconciled Antonius and Lepidus',  
Those two pernicious monsters with the Senate,  
And now he is returned again toward mutiny,  
No doubt to 〈◊〉 with those two plagues, and there  
Contrive the ruin of the commonwealth.  
For State- 〈◊〉 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 healthful when the State's 〈◊〉  
Whereof I am a Member?   Quint. 

Alas 'tis true,  
Too true; the commonwealth's diseased indeed,  
Sick 〈◊〉 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 thieves;  
For Caesar, Antony, and 〈◊〉,  
Are met together not far off from mutiny,  
And in an 〈◊〉 round environed  
With a small river, without any company,  
Are as I hear consulting,   Marc. 

What a Hell  
Will this poor City he, when such a 〈◊〉,  
Like Minos, AEacus, and 〈◊〉,  
Sit on the life and death of her best statesmen?   Quint. 

'tis to be feared indeed they will play Sylla's.  
But who can help it? if the Gods will 〈◊〉  
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 mortal, and the State  
Of this life's pilgrimage is full of woe,  
Better die once delivered with one blow,  
And in ones country's cause, than living 〈◊〉  
Wounded with sight of bloody Tyranny.   Marc. 

Now Quintus speaks like his own virtueus' self,  
This language melts me into fire and air;  
I am sublimed, and ready to take flight  
In ecstasy from this unwieldy lump;  
Come, let's retire into my garden; there  
Proceed in this divine discourse, 'twill make  
My soul disdain with Earthly mould 〈◊〉  
And raise her thoughts to immortality.   Exeunt. Enter Caesar Solus. 

How full of fare and horror is this morning?  
She comes not tripping on the mountains 〈◊〉,  
But moves with drooping pace, and leaden heels,  
Her eyelids are not rosy, nor her brow  
Gilded with that sweet beauty it was wont;  
What has she changed colours with her 〈◊〉?  
Or is she sick, and so has bound her head,  
In this black vail of clouds? Alas, alas,  
'tis left her eyes behold our blacker deeds.  
Myself, Antonius, and Lepidus  
Have, like the three Saturnian brothers once,  
Amongst us shared the Roman would, as if  
It were our own inheritance, and now  
We must complot a Tragedy; the 〈◊〉  
Must be culled out; shall 〈◊〉 then die?  
Alas, how piety struggles in my breast.  
This mouth, this tongue which now must speak his death;  
Was wont to call him Father; shall I 〈◊〉  
Become a parricide? Suppose I do;  
He that aspires to govern without check,  
Must set his foot upon his father's neck.  
It is a maxim long since practised  
By Jove himself upon his father 〈◊〉.  
But words oblige not to a natural 〈◊〉.  
I did but call him Father; and if now  
I yield consent unto his death, I do it  
As he is Marcus Cicero, a stranger  
To Caesar's blood. But Cato thought him 〈◊〉  
The honoured title of his country's 〈◊〉.  
And shall 〈◊〉 ruin so great worth?  
Be still my melting 〈◊〉: He must die,  
And therefore because he is his country's parent,  
He that is Caesar's friend must be a 〈◊〉  
Unto his country's freedom, which he prizes  
Above his life, and for this cause must lose it.  
Shall he then die? Ambition says 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 Caesar,  
And Lepidus shall yield his brother Paulus.  
Ambition thus must thought of pity smother  
Even toward a Father, uncle, or a Brother. Exit.  
Enter Laureas. Heavens! What a dismal time is this? the dogs  
As if they were transformed into wolves,  
Gather together, and do nought but howl;  
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 human voice,  
An infant newly born to speak; A shower  
Of stones descended from the troubled skies;  
And in the air was heard the cries of men,  
Clashing of armour, and a noise of Horses,  
Shrill trumpets sounds; the statues of the Gods  
Sweat drops of blood, and some were touched 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 allege the wretched fall of Crassus,  
When such a purple flood of Roman gore  
Discoloured Lucan's field.  
But the not yet cured dire Pharsalian blow  
Shall speak for all. Room scarce e'er knew a prodigy  
Which was not praevious to that bloody day,  
The Sun and Moon eclipsed, 〈◊〉 flames  
Obliquely darted on th' Italian shore,  
The vestal fire extinct, the Native gods  
Weeping; State-changing comets, monstrous births,  
The groans of Ghosts from out their troubled urns,  
With many more.   Laur. 

But the Hetruscian Soothsayers  
Will descant better on these things than we.   Tyro. 

God's-light thou sayst true, and now I think on't 〈◊〉.  
we'll try if we can search what they determine,  
Sure they have done by this their immolations.   〈…〉 Enter Senate and 〈◊〉. 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 〈◊〉 doom  
By 〈◊〉 deep 〈◊〉, or by thunder,  
A hairy star or some such boding wonder,  
Inform us what the angry 〈◊〉,  
Threaten in these 〈◊〉 prodigies,  
But be not 〈◊〉, nor shroud  
Your Speeches in 〈◊〉 dark mysterious cloud,  
〈◊〉 did the sibyls and the 〈◊〉, hick Nun,  
〈◊〉 your inspired Numbers evenly run  
With obvious and unfolded sense, that so  
We 〈◊〉 conceive the essence of our 〈◊〉.  

The Ancientest of the 〈◊〉.  
Then fathers, 〈◊〉 your dismal fate,  
Your freedom 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 〈◊〉 down 〈◊〉 d. Cicer. 
Fallen down?  
〈◊〉 it some 〈◊〉 ecstasy or death?  

Second Soothsayer.  
〈◊〉 brother from his clay is flown,  
And 〈◊〉 your destiny with his own.  
〈◊〉 happy he, 〈◊〉 now is blessed  
With a true 〈◊〉 rest,  
And shall not see the tide of 〈◊〉  
Which on Survivers heads will 〈◊〉.   

The third.  
Like our brother's vital 〈◊〉  
Who now lies before us dead,  
Your twine of 〈◊〉 is broke,  
And 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 expect the yoke.   

The fourth.  
What the 〈◊〉 have made  
A firm decree, and he hath said,  
No human power can disannul,  
'tis signed in your speaking bull.   

The fift.  
When Romulus first founded Rome,  
He 〈◊〉 his crown by Remus doom,  
And built his Monarchy in blood;  
Now shall return that antique power  
Not 〈◊〉 with a shower  
Of that salt 〈◊〉, but a 'slud.   〈◊〉. 
Well, what the fates have 〈◊〉, human power  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉 to cancel; if I die,  
( As sure my 〈◊〉 must help to make the 〈◊〉)  
I will die willingly; 〈◊〉 a noble death  
Not to survive ones country's liberty:  
If Gods might 〈◊〉 of death, then would they die.  
The Soothsayers over the dead corpses 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 darkness 〈◊〉,  4. 
And cloudy woe;  1. 
Where ne'er was known;  2. 
A cheerful tone,  3. 
Where wretched Souls  4. 
Like Stygian owls,  

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. 
Inspired with holy fires  4. 
In triumph go,  1. 
Where songs of mirth  2. 
Are carolled forth,  3. 
Where blessed Souls,  4. 
In Nectar bowls,  

Together.  
Drink and solace one another.   Exeunt with the 〈◊〉. Enter Cicero reading. 
O Vitam vere vitalem! sed beatam etiam mortem 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 be atissimam vitam aditum 〈◊〉  

Most true, for did we like savage beasts  
Returning to a former 〈◊〉 being,  
No one part of us free from dissolution,  
Death were a plague, and did not harbour in it  
The sweetness which they talk of; for I think  
To be, is better, though in restless troubles,  
Than not to be at all; 'twere senseless, impious  
To say the power that's 〈◊〉 of Nature,  
Infused into us such a love of Union  
In this compounded frame; without some blessing  
In the continuance; but a 〈◊〉 cessation,  
A sinking into nothing, though it pains 〈◊〉,  
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 ourselves. I cannot think the Gods  
Were so unkind, so sparing of their blessings,  
Or feebly stored, as to bestow a Nothing  
On the two pious sons of Argia,  
On Agamedes and Trophonius;  
For, pray, what goodness can be couched in that  
Which cancels being, that is one with goodness?  
But do we live then? can I think the soul  
Survives, when in an urns forgetful chest  
The mournful treasure of our Ashes 〈◊〉?  
See how my panting struggling soul contends  
To harbour the belief! Alas, methinks  
'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 replete with vigour,  
Yea oftentimes oraculous, as if  
Something lay caged within that was not mortal,  
But were new rapt with joy of better state,  
And even then seizing on divinity,  
When wicked men are full of 〈◊〉  
Tortured with furies, which their consciences  
Present them in the ugliest shapes: is't fancy?  
Or is't a fear their sullied names will stink  
In th' nostrils 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 darkness 〈◊〉  
And secret Angels have been conscious;  
Therefore by this it seems that 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Ixion's wheel, and the Tantalian fruits  
Are not mere bugbears; but some mystic emblems  
Of the succeeding pains of guilty souls.  
Thus have I argued, yea and 〈◊〉 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 another's reasons,  
But cannot save their own, alas, from falling;  
They can offend a wise 〈◊〉  
Weaken his grounds, but not defend themselves.  
Whither, alas, shall our endeavours 〈◊〉,  
When we are 〈◊〉 in knowledge of our end?   Enter Laureas. Laur. 
My Lord, there's one without would speak with you  
From the Triumvirs.  Cic. 
The Triumvirs 〈◊〉?  Laur. 
Yes, so he says.  Cic. 
O from Antonius,  
Caesar and 〈◊〉. Send for Quint. to me,  
For Salvius, Otho, Publius 〈◊〉,  
And other of my friends, you know.  Lau. 
I fly.  Cic. 
But charge none enter till they heat from me.  
From the Triumvirs? have they then 〈◊〉  Ex. 〈◊〉. 
A new-coyned office? what will now become  
Of those that have the old ones? what ay why have  
Their Reverend heads struck off like Tarquin's poppy.  Enter Quintur Cicero. 〈◊〉 
Brother, how is it you are here so soon,  
Since 'tis but now I sent to entreat your company?  Quint. 
A Brother should not stay till he be sent for,  
When he suspects his presence will be useful;  
I had some doubtful notice of this messenger  
Which now within waits for admittance.  Mar. 
Quintus,  
How I am blessed in such a careful brother!  
Thus when the Argive King was vexed with doubts,  
And called a council of the Grecian Peers,  
Only his brother 〈◊〉 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 mutual aids and counsels.  
But what dost think this messenger may bring?  Quint. 
No good I warrant you, perhaps our deaths  
Can we expect from those three Roman 〈◊〉  
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.  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
I 〈◊〉:, Sir, say Health unto your Lordship,  
Until yourself 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 〈◊〉.  〈◊〉. 
No, my mouth shall never  
Speak my own brother's 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. 
No: ay 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 Imperater, Augur, Triumvir, to M. Tullius Cicero, Consular, Greeting.  
〈◊〉 the Triumviri M. Antonius, M. Lepidus, and Octavius 〈◊〉( Ventidius being chosen Consul in his room  Mar. 
Ventidius Consul in Octavius room,  
And he Triumvir? this afflicts my soul.  ( Reads.) 
are for the space of five whole years appointed with full and absolute authoriy for the re-establishment of the commonwealth; and you Cicero are now in my hands; yet have I so mitigated my just conceived indignation toward you, that if you will but 〈◊〉 your Orations which you call your philippics, compiled only out of malice and rancour against me, you shall live; otherwise—  
Yours, if perverseness make you not your own foe.  Mar. 
You shall be soon informed which way I am resolved to take.  Mess. 
I'll wait your lordship's pleasure.  Exit. Mar. 
Friends, here you see the slender twine whereon  
My aged life depends.  Salv. 
Too true my Lord.  Marc. 
Your counsel brother.  Quint. 
Mine is resolute.  Marc. 
The better, let me hear it.  Quin. 
This it is;—  
Defy him.  Salv. 
Hold, I hope you will not, Quint.  
Be your own brother's headsman, that but now  
Could not be won so much as read the Letter,  
Lest you should speak his sentence.  Apul. 
Good my Lord,  
Preserve yourself for better times; the State  
Will lose its soul, when 'tis deprived of you.  Salv. 
'twill be a breathless trunk, a liveless carcase,  
When you are gone; which were the only blood  
And Sinews of her liberty.  1 Friend. 
Alas!  
We shall be preyed upon by ravenous Vultures,  
And those insulting Eagles of Ambition.  2 Friend. 
Think but of this when 〈◊〉 arise,  
Where shall we find new Cicero's to oppose them?  3 Friend. 
Where shall oppressed 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  
Astraea down again; unhappy Room!  Quint. 
I do confess good friends the commonwealth  
Will miss a Cicero; and that my brother,  
If we respect the wishes of the people,  
And wan●t of the republic, has not yet  
Lived half of half his time; but if we cast  
A backward eye upon his glorious actions,  
Has lived 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 lived too long.  Apul. 
Ah! but the public good's to be preferred  
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 physicians safely give it o'er;  
Were he an AEsculapius that could put  
New life into a State, as once that son  
Of Paean did to Virbius; I should then  
Blaspheme Great Jove himself, should he but aim  
His triforke flames against him; but for one  
Now sinking of himself into his grave,  
And such a one as Cicero, in these times,  
When such men's ages are but vain, what sepulchre  
Can be more fit, more glorious than the same  
Wherein his country's freedom lies enclosed?  
If he now die, he shall be buried  
With the renowned Pompey's, 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 confess my eyes  
Do swim with tears, yet shall my words proceed  
From a courageous mind) be still thyself;  
To the huge volume of Antonius faults  
Add one crime more, even Cicero's death; 'twill stick  
Upon his name with a more lasting blot  
Then the most heinous of his other 〈◊〉.  
For should his future deeds pronounce him 〈◊〉  
To the great Alexander or 〈◊〉 son,  
From whom he 〈◊〉 his vain pedigree;  
Should after ages wonder at his Acts,  
And say, why this, and this, and this he did,  
Built such a City, conquered such a country,  
Thus and thus many times 〈◊〉, with Kings  
And Queens to follow his victorious chariot;  
Yet, for a period to each glorious sentence,  
Some honest slander by will sighing say  
But he killed Cicero; 〈◊〉 shall still  
Much like 〈◊〉 Vulture rend and 〈◊〉  
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 〈◊〉  
But closely 〈◊〉 a pardon for his own.  
Believe me 〈◊〉, 'tis the 〈◊〉 part  
Which can be given, or taken from thee; that,  
That's the true Cicero which Antonius knows  
Cannot be proscribed 〈◊〉 by Cicero.  
If Antony deceive, and break his faith,  
( As faith is 〈◊〉 me found in such as he)  
Than thou must die. Suppose he 〈◊〉 perform 〈◊〉  
Then must you live a vassal to his 〈◊〉;  
Now which is to be 〈◊〉, death or fervitude,  
I leave it to yourself, and your own judgement.  
Yet my beloved Brother, by our Loves,  
By thy now well-spent three and sixty years,  
By thy renowned 〈◊〉, the sacred  
And( if thou 〈◊〉) 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 〈◊〉, & thank you  
That not affection only, which were fond,  
But the republics good, has been the 〈◊〉  
Of your persuasions. Well; I promise you  
I will do nothing unbeseeming Cicero.  
Frame your hopes compliment by this. I shall  
Dispatch the messenger myself.  Salv. 
Good Cicero  
Remember us and Rome.  Apul. 
We were not born  
( 'tis your own saying) for ourselves alone,  
Our country claims a 〈◊〉.  Cic. 
Farewell, farewell,  
Farewell my Friends; but 〈◊〉, let me have  
Your company.  Quint. 
You shall.  Apul. 
Nay then I fear.  Exeunt Mar. 
Come Brother Quintus, 〈◊〉 hast bravely argued;  
Why weep'st 〈◊〉  Quint. 
Do you then approve my 〈◊〉  
I will unsay it.  Mar. 
Nay, thou shalt not, canst not.  
Come, come, let's in, thyself shall only hear  
How I will send defiance to 〈◊〉.  Exeunt. Enter Laurcas and 〈◊〉. Laur. 
What 〈◊〉 thou Tyro that my Lord admits  
None but his brother Quintus to th' delivery  
Of his reply?  Tyr. 
I cannot guess 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 〈◊〉.  〈◊〉. 
〈◊〉, life is precious.  Laur. 
But honour more;  
` And what is life?  Tyro. 
'tis nature's gift. 〈◊〉. A poor  
` And worthless jewel fastened by a hair  
` To th' ear of vanity.  Tyro. 
It is the fair  
` And sprightly shine of this compendious world.  ` Laur. 
And from what 〈◊〉 is that lustre hurled.  ` Tyro. 
The soul. La. A short lived day, a twilight sun,  
` Whose fading beauties cease when scarce begun.  
` But honour is a day, that knows no night,  
` And ever triumphs in immortal light.  
I think Antonius might have done more wisely,  
And might have sooner compassed his 〈◊〉,  
If he had only sent him life, without  
The intimation of those harsh conditions;  
For so he could not in my slender judgement,  
〈◊〉 such applausive terms have contradicted  
The proffered benefit of his life, and then  
I am persuaded fully that my Lord  
Would ne'er have let posterity have known  
His hate to Antony, from whom he should  
Have daigned th' acceptance of a slavish breath.  Tyro. 
Come, prithee leave, I shall despair 〈◊〉,  Exeunt. Enter M. Cicero solus. 

Now I have sealed my fate, I must expect  
The second message for my head. I must?  
What, may not man unlock this Cabinet,  
And free the heavenly jewel of his soul?  
A wise man stays not nature's period, but  
If things occur, which trouble his 〈◊〉,  
Emits himself, departing out of life  
As from a stage or Theatre, nor passes  
Whether he take or make his dissolution;  
Whether he do't in sickness or in health.  
'tis base to live, but brave to die by stealth,  
This is the daring Stoics glorious language  
I was 〈◊〉 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 〈◊〉 eyes,  
Affect us much, and with their subtleties  
Woo us to gaze upon them, but are found  
By skilful and judicious eyes to 〈◊〉  
In symmetry of parts, and due proportion;  
Even so the Stoics 〈◊〉 are carved  
With seeming curiousness, almost forcing judgement,  
And carry with them an applausive show  
Of undenial 〈◊〉 verity, 〈◊〉 well scanned  
They are more like the dreams of idle brains,  
Then the grave dictates of Philosophers:  
The wise 〈◊〉 was opinioned 〈◊〉,  
For most divinely he forbids us leave  
The corpse due guard without our captain's licence.  
And to speak true, we are but usufructuaries,  
The God that governs in us is 〈◊〉.  
A Prisoner breaking from his 〈◊〉 or hold;  
If he be 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉;  
If innocent, 〈◊〉 even that innocence  
Which might perhaps have brought him clearly 〈◊〉.  
'tis so with us; our Magistrate, I mean  
The power that's sovereign of this natural frame,  
Has sent us( Plato says from heavenly mansions)  
Into this 〈◊〉 prison; here we live,  
And must not free our 〈◊〉, but patiently  
Expect our summons from that sacred power  
By his 〈◊〉 Death. For otherwise  
We become guilty of a greater sin  
Than Parricide itself, no bond of Nature  
Being so 〈◊〉, as of one to himself.  
The Grecians knew this, when they judged the body  
Of Ajax who had slain himself, unworthy  
The common rites of burial. Careful Nature  
〈◊〉 fenced our hearts about with certain bones;  
〈◊〉 like swords; and shall we break the guard?  
〈◊〉, rather 〈◊〉 us wait the will of th' heavens,  
And, when we hence are warned by their Ordinance,  
〈◊〉 us 〈◊〉 with glad and joyful hearts,  
And think 〈◊〉 selves delivered from a gaol,  
Eased of gives and fetters, that we may  
Remove unto our own 〈◊〉 dwelling;  
For, without doubt, that power that gave us being,  
Did not 〈◊〉 and foster us for this,  
That having suffered on this stage of life  
Thousand 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 calamities,  
Quotidian 〈◊〉, and all in virtue's cause,  
We should for guerdon fall into the gulf  
Of an 〈◊〉 death, and non-subsistence.  
〈◊〉, rather let us cherish this belief  
That there's another haven provided for us,  
〈◊〉 blessed 〈◊〉 for our longing souls.  
Armed with a 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 of this,  
Like 〈◊〉 I will 〈◊〉 my death,  
And with the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 spirit resign my breath.   Enter Quintus. Marc. 
〈◊〉 now? 〈◊〉. O 〈◊〉, there's no remedy  
〈◊〉 die we must, or save ourselves by slight.  〈◊〉. 
Why, if the 〈◊〉 have so determined,  
Welcome the easer of 〈◊〉 woes, 〈◊〉 Death.  
〈◊〉 what's the matter Quintus?  〈◊〉 
The 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 posting with a threatening speed to Rome;  
They come like thunder, and are bringing with them  
A bloody tempest.  Marc. 
Who can help it brother?  
Yet we'll incline the times malignity;  
The heavens must not be tempted; we are to keep  
This 〈◊〉 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 carelessness,  
We are 〈◊〉 already. He that thinks  
Surrounded with his enemies to scape  
( As Homer fables in the Trojan war)  
Enveloped with a cloud, may be deceived.  
No Quintus, we will fly, or, if that word  
Be, as the Stoics 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?  
Prithee see all things suddenly prepared;  
we'll 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 grieved to see these days.  
Are all my labors come to this? my watchings?  
My cares and services for the public good?  
The dangers which I daily have incurred  
By opposition of new-springing Tyranny?  
Are 〈◊〉, all my endeavours come to this,  
That they now seem to have precipitated  
This ruin on us, rather than withstood 〈◊〉  
Unhappy Rome! the Deities decreed  
This downfall of thy liberty; for never  
Could all our labours have been so pernicious,  
Unless there had a greater power disposed them  
To this sad end; which was the sole 〈◊〉,  
Whence we directed thy now shipwrecked 〈◊〉.  
This sinks me in a 〈◊〉 of grief, thy Senators  
Shall die like victims, Russians be the Priests;  
And thou the Altar, in their wretched entrails  
A dismal horrid augury shall be written,  
Even thy eternal 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 haste  
Posting to th' City, as I was informed,  
Yet there are certain 〈◊〉 they say  
Coming as Harbingers.  Marc. 
Believe me Quintus,  
We have the greater reason to be packing;  
These are the lightning previous to that thunder,  
Whereof you spoke before. And lightning strikes not  
The humble cottage, but the 〈◊〉 edifice.  
I see the loved objects which imprint  
Those characters of sadness in thy visage.  
Grieve not Pomponia, Thou 〈◊〉 happy, Sister,  
Thou Mayst remain in thine own native 〈◊〉  
No Antony thirsts for thy blood, thou Mayst  
In peace adore the deities of thy country,  
Yea and the Lares of thy private house;  
When such as we, must leave our ancient 〈◊〉,  
Yea and our Country to a heavier woe.  Pomp. 
And that 'tis grieves me brother; what 〈◊〉,  
What pleasure can I take in any thing,  
When my beloved Quintus is departed?  
My life will not be vital. O my Quintus.  
Soul of my soul.  Quin. 
Pomponia, do not weep,  
Tears are an ill presage to such a journey.  Enter Laureas, Tyro, Philologus. Marc. 
What 〈◊〉 the Litters ready?  Laur. 
〈◊〉 my Lord.  Quint. 
My life Pomponia, now farewell.  Pomp. 
Nay husband,  
I'll 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 〈◊〉.  Pomp. 
It cannot brother.  Marc. 
Yes, for though you 〈◊〉,  
Thy loving spouse shall leave behind his 〈◊〉  Exeunt omnes. 

Chorus.  
WHere is that ancient beauty, Rome,  
Was 〈◊〉 to shine  
About thy head? 〈◊〉 are become  
Those rays divine?  
Survey thy Fortunes, stupid City,  
Look, look and know  
Thyself turned monument of 〈◊〉,  
A map of woe.  
〈◊〉 thou art deaf; well vaunting 〈◊〉  
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 victims fell.  
Boast this, and more, do, but withal  
With horror say,  
You did it only to install  
Worse plagues than they,  
That you one viper of the State  
Have changed for 〈◊〉;  
And for a worse Triumvirate  
A Monarchy.  
Alas, Alas, where shall we shroud  
Our wretched heads?  
For this threatening pendulous cloud  
Wide ruin spreads.  
Our ship upon a rock is cast,  
Our sail yards 〈◊〉,  
The Northwind has 〈◊〉 down our Mast,  
Our sheets are torn;  
Our 〈◊〉 too( alas!) are lost,  
Oars have we none,  
And that which grieves and cuts 〈◊〉 most,  
Our Pilot's gone.  
What helps, weak vessel, on this shelf  
Thy birth divine?  
In vain, in vain, thou 〈◊〉 thyself,  
A Pontic Pine;  
In vain thou invocat'st thy two  
Tyndarian Gods,  
They aret' anticipate such 〈◊〉  
Too weak by odds.  
Then since poor 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 we must  
Ourselves compose  
To bear each rigid storm, each gust,  
Each wave that flows;  
O let us pray, this dangerous 〈◊〉  
Do not become  
A dead sea, or a sea of blood,  
And its own tomb.    

Actus Quintus.  Enter Salvius and others. Salv. 
Friends, you are welcome, why so sad, I pray?  
Those looks be fit not feasts; invest your 〈◊〉  
In the glad livery of smiles; be merry;  
〈◊〉 is the only essence of a feast.  
But ah, how ill does this dissembled 〈◊〉  
Suit with my 〈◊〉, or the times? I have  
Invited you this night unto a supper,  
The last, for aught I know, that I shall 〈◊〉  
In your 〈◊〉 companies. 'tis true;  
The Tribuneship was ever till this day  
〈◊〉 holy and of 〈◊〉 power;  
But from those men which 〈◊〉 new 〈◊〉,  
What must the old expect but foul misprision?  
〈◊〉 Jove 〈◊〉 come down from his Olympus,  
〈◊〉 shadowing his 〈◊〉 with a veil,  
But in's most godlike majesty, I think  
For one Lycaon, he might now find three,  
And such that would with more unheard of savageness  
〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉; not with some poor infant,  
But even their mother's flesh, I mean 〈◊〉 countries,  
And stead of 〈◊〉 give him blood to drink;  
You know how fraught 〈◊〉 zeal unto the cause  
Of the republic, I have now 〈◊〉  
And quit that 〈◊〉 of villainous Rebellion  
Ant 〈◊〉 party, and have 〈◊〉 to Cicero,  
The 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 was ever blessed with;  
And can I hope to meet with 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Then those who's only 〈◊〉 apparition  
Has made him timely seek another 〈◊〉?  
Which from my soul I wish he may obtain;  
Nay rather if that good 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 a shower,  
I must expect a tempest; for our nature  
〈◊〉 more implacably a declined friend  
Then 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 foe. Since therefore Antony  
And his two 〈◊〉 plagues are now approaching,  
〈◊〉 there are Centiners arrived already,  
Their fatal 〈◊〉, perhaps, t' extinguish  
Those careful eyes, whose restless vigilance  
Has been employed in service of the State,  
( As sure they come to some such bloody end)  
Let me enjoy you with the same solemnity  
As parting friends take leave of one another.  
Yet 〈◊〉 so nething of the 〈◊〉 mirth  
〈◊〉 your 〈◊〉; let's laugh away our sorrow,  
We may 〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉 sup to morrow.  Exeunt. Enter Centurion, Soldiers. Centurion. 
Come Soldiers, Salvius Otho, as I hear,  
Is frolic with his neighbours at a feast,  
we'll spoil their second course. You know the price  
Whereat the heads are rated by the Triumvirs.  
Come follow me.  Exeunt. A Table discovered. Salvius and his friends. To them the Centurion. Centur. 
Nay stir not, 〈◊〉, be still, and keep your places,  
Lest your own folly make yourselves copartners  
In this man's fall, which must be sudden.— Tribune.  Pulls. Salvius 〈◊〉 the Table by the hairs of the 〈◊〉. A Curtain drawn. Enter Centurion with Salvius head. Cent. 
Now for Minutius.  Exeunt. Enter Minutius disguised. Minut. 
Nay leave me 〈◊〉, I am still Minutius  
Although disguised, and if you longer stay  
Those very ensigns of my Praetorship  
Will soon betray me, and perhaps the Axe  
Which you there carry may strike off my head.  Exit. Lictores. 
Alas, alas, but lest our too much 〈◊〉  
Prove our own Lord's destruction, let's be gone.  Exeunt. Enten Centurion, Soldiers. Cent. 
He cannot be escaped far, that's certain.  
What should the Lictors else do here? go search.  
Yet M. Tullius, with whose execution  Exeunt milites. 
We were most strictly charged, is 〈◊〉,  
With Quintus 〈◊〉. But the colonel  
Popilius 〈◊〉, and Herennius  
I hope will overtake them.  Sold. 
Here's the head  
Of that tall Poppy.  Enter Soldiers with Minutius head. Centu. 
Why, 'tis bravely done.  
Come, there are more such Cedars to be 〈◊〉.  Exeunt. Enter Quintus Cicero. Quint. 
They say the golden and the silver age  
Was then, when frugal mankind was content  
With those displayed riches, which the earth  
Invests herself with, and her concealed entrails  
Were not rent up in quarries deep as hell,  
For those pernicious world-disturbing metals;  
But sure this is the age of gold and silver,  
When those two precious perils, are the poles  
And hinges of the world, whereon it moves;  
I might perhaps with my beloved 〈◊〉  
Have been secure and safe, whereas being forced  
For lack of 〈◊〉 to return, each step  
I take, is ready to surrender me  
Into the hands of death.  Enter Quintus 〈◊〉. Quint. jun. 
O Father, Father,  
Your treacherous Servants have betrayed you, come  
For heaven's sake, come, death, death is at your heels.  Exeunt. Enter Centurion, Soldiere. Cent. 
Bring his son hither, though you sinned not him.  〈◊〉 Sold. 
〈◊〉 returned! I wonder where's his brother.  Enter Soldiers with Quintus jun. Sold. 
Himself we cannot find, but here's young Quin.  Cent. 
Come youngster, where's your father quickly tell me.  Quint. jun. 
O that I knew, my ever honoured Sire,  
The place of thy abode, alas; or whether  
Thou art yet living, or hast now breathed forth  
Thy sacred spirit! for a thousand pains,  
My breast all gored with 〈◊〉, hands cut with chains,  
Famine, or sword, or all should never move  
Me make a rupture in my 〈◊〉 love.  Cent. 
Cease this dissembling language, and reveal him.  
Or by the Heavens thou diest.  Quint. jun. 
No, villainous centurion 〈◊〉 life,  
If I knew where my reverend father were,  
That would 〈◊〉 it soonest. 'tis my wish  
I may soon quit this life.  Cent. 
With stipes, with wounds,  
With torments worse than death; impetuous pains  
Shall rend thy secrets from thy stubborn breast.  Qu. jun. 
〈◊〉 these are nothing, threat more & 〈◊〉,  
Expose me to the ravenous lion's paw;  
〈◊〉 me into some common 〈◊〉, or Dungeon,  
Wind off my flesh with 〈◊〉, do and 〈◊〉  
Young Vultures with the hits before my 〈◊〉;  
Yet had I hid my father, as you deem,  
I never would 〈◊〉 so dear, so sacred,  
So glorious a treasure.  Cent. 
Take him thence,  
And torture this fond elf till he confess.  Quint. sen. 
Above.  Exeunt Soldiers with Quintus jun. Quint. sen. 
O what a virtuous son have I, was ever  
Such piety in so few years? he dares  
Th' extremest of their tortures, with a spirit  
Constant as Virtue's self. See how they wrack him!  
My melting bowels yearn within me; oh!  
Each stripe they give him cuts my very soul.  
See, see, they are even weary of tormenting,  
And yet the youth still firm. O Piety!  Enter Soldiers with young Qu. as from 〈◊〉. Cent. 
What? where's his father? has he yet confessed?  Quint. jun. 
Confessed Centurion! no I will not, cannot,  
I am not Juno's Iris, that my eyes  
Should reach from hence to Macedon.  Cent. 
To Macedon?  
Why his own servants say he is returned.  Q. 〈◊〉. 
Such slaves as they that would betray their master,  
If he were in their clutches; may not they  
Cheat thee as well?  Cent. 
'tis folly to 〈◊〉,  
What force shall soon unbosom: speak,  
Where is he?  Qu. ju. 
What's that to thee? I dare the worst, Centurion,  
Thy malice can inflict.  Cen. 
Nay then I see  
I must myself chastise you; come ye weasel.  Enter Quint. sen. Qu. sen. 
Nay hold Centurion, here I am before you,  
〈◊〉 the father whom you seek for.  Qui. ju. 
Ah,  
What mean you father, that you thrust yourself  
Into the jaws of certain fate? I could  
Have spit defiance in the face of cruelty.  
Though she had harboured in her friendlike looks  
A thousand deaths.  Quint. sen. 
Indeed I do believe it,  
And let me kiss thee for thy piety;  
But old unfruitful stocks must be cut down,  
When their decaying, and now sapless heads  
Keep off the quickening sun-beans from the young  
And hopeful tenderlings which they overtop.  
Suppose, my son, I had still lived, and thou  
Been made a prey to their relentless rage,  
I should have died too: for my 〈◊〉 loins  
Are dry and barren; but in thee my son  
I shall survive myself.  Cent. 
Ha, ha, ha!  Qu. sen. 
I hope you do not mock at my calamity.  Cent. 
Survive in him? Ay, so you shall, and both  
Be ferried o'er the Stygian lake together.  Qu. sen. 
What! must my son then die? what has he done, Alas?  Cent. 
〈◊〉 crime enough to have a life.  Qu. sen. 
Then kill me first, for sure I shall anticipate  
Your bloody hands, if I but see him slain.  Q. jun. 
Nay on my knees with suppliant 〈◊〉 I beg  
I may die first, it is a boon I shall  
Prize even above my life.  Cent. 
we'll soon decide you controversy, you shall die together.  ( Both slain.) 〈◊〉. 
Take 〈◊〉 the bodies and unhead them quickly.  Exeunt. Enter Popilius Lenas' with Marcus Tullius Cicero's head and hands. 

A princely gift, by Jove; Popilius Laenas,  
Thou hast now played the royal butcher, on;  
And let Antonius bless his longing eyes  
With sight of such a welcome present. Ha!  
Is this that Cicero's head that thundered so  
In our tribunals? Ha! is this that mouth  
Was wont to spit such lightning? or are those,  
Those hands which whilom thumped our Rostra so?  
Ay, even the self same head, and mouth, and hands.  
Then Antony triumph, thy foe is dead,  
The trophies of his fall, these hands, this head.   Exit. Enter Pomponia, Laureas, Tyro. Laur. 
Dire, horrid, bitter fates! did Rome ere see  
A cruelty of such a high degree?  
Whose griefs shall I first publish? thine,  
Unhappy Widow? or the states? or mine?  
Thine that hast lost so excellent a brother?  
The States, that cannot now produce another,  
So reverend a Patriot? or mine own,  
That have now lost so good a Lord? I groan  
Under the burden of my loss, nor can  
Summon the 〈◊〉 character of Man  
Into my wounded breast.  Pomp. 
Come, Laureas, come,  
Expoand the series of his death; my heart  
Is turned adamant, I cannot weep,  
Stupidity has seized me, and methinks  
I feel a kind of pleasure in the story  
Of woes complete and perfect, I am even  
Transformed to a statue: small griefs mourn,  
But great ones, such as mine, much like the head  
Of the deformed Gorgon, turn to stone,  
And make us our own sepulchres.  〈◊〉. 
Good Tyro,  
Tell thou the tragic story, for my voice  
Is strangled by a throng of struggling sighs,  
Crowding from out my wounded breast.  Tyro. 
Then thus.  
Departing hence we went to Tusculum,  
Where hearing of these Outlawries and proscriptions,  
They suddenly determined for Astyra.  
So we conveyed them both into two Litters  
Weak as they were alas; but on the way  
Your husband calling to his sad remembrance  
That at his fatal setting forth he took  
But little money with him, and his brother  
My Lord had scarce sufficient for himself;  
He thought it best in such an urgent straight,  
His brother should hold on, while he himself  
Returned home to furnish him with necessaries,  
And so to haste and overtake him; this  
They both agreed upon, and so embracing  
Tears trickling down their cheeks, they took their leaves  
Of one another.  Laur. 
Thus departing souls  
Do bid adieu unto their fading mansions,  
For never nature strove so much, as when  
This honoured pair sighed forth their last farewells.  
'Twas a sad Omen that they ne'er should meet.  Tyro. 
My Lord being come at length unto Astyra,  
Found a ship ready and embarked immediately,  
And with a fair and prosperous gale of wind  
Sailed along the coast unto Mount Circe,  
And there he landed; but on other thoughts  
He went aboard again, for 'twas his mind  
To be conveyed by sea unto his farm  
Which is by Capua; but before we landed,  
Bowing securely by the pleasant shore,  
Our linens swelling with th' Etesian gales,  
Which in the Summer season fan that tract,  
A shoal of crows came waving through the air,  
As we conjectured from a little Temple  
Standing upon the shore, and dedicated  
To God Apollo; these most strangely crying  
Lighted upon our Saleyards, with their bills  
Pulling the cords, which made our heavy hearts  
Presage some sinister and dismal luck  
Then imminent, yet being come a land,  
We brought him to his house, where he reposed  
Himself a while, to see if he could sleep.  Laur. 
Unhappy sleep! for straight this drowsy brother,  
Was seconded by his pale sister Death.  Tyro. 
But lo, the former shoal with louder cries  
Came hither also, beating against the windows,  
Till some of them got in, and never ceased.  
Till with their bills they had plucked off at length  
The clothes wherewith his face was covered.  
We, seeing this, were angry with ourselves  
As too too negligent of our Master's safety,  
Saying we were more vile than savage creatures,  
Should we still tarry in that fatal place,  
And see perhaps our Lord, before our eyes  
Cruelly butchered, wherefore with all speed  
Partly by force, and partly by entreaty,  
We carry him again unto his Litter  
And so in haste departed toward the sea;  
But being come into a shady wood  
Which the Sun never pierces with his beams  
To glad the widowed earth.  Laur. 
A place decreed  
By fate, I think, for such a villainy;  
For should the Sun have seen so foul an act,  
〈◊〉 would have turned retrograde, and hide  
His visage from such cruelty.  Tyro. 
Well here,  
In this same gloomy canopy of horror,  
Popilius Lanas overtook the Litter.  Pomp. 
Who, he whose cause my brother Marcus one e  
Pleaded before the Judges, when he was  
Accused for his father's death?  Tyro. 
The same.  
We stood prepared to spend our dearest blood,  
Before we would have seen our Master 〈◊〉;  
But ah! my Lord commands us not to stir,  
And to speak truth, it was in vain, for 〈◊〉  
Had armed Soldiers with him, and was followed  
By other Centiners. Then, O then my Lord  
Thrust out his aged head from forth the Litter,  
And taking, as his manner was, his beard  
In his left hand, and looking manfully  
His Headsman in the face, he stoutly said,  
Come Soldier, come, strike off this head of mine.  Laur. 
We stood like statues with our trembling hands  
Before our wretched eyes, for 'twould have struck  
A tiger with remorse to have beheld him.  Tyro. 
Then 〈◊〉 with a thrice repeated stroke  
Hacked off his head; there was scarce blood enough  
Fell from those aged veins to stain the sword,  
And prove it conscious of so foul a murder.  Laur. 
Thus was divided from his breathless trunk  
That sacrary of Learning, where the Graces,  
Graces that never had a Cytherea  
To be their Mistress, moved in their right spheres.  
Where Hermes was enthroned, that winged Patron  
Of heavenborn elocution, but without  
His silching Art; for that State-piracy  
The bribing Science was as far from him  
As Themis self; where Pallas too was lodged,  
Not she that strove with Venus for an apple  
On the 〈◊〉 hill, but such a one  
That deemed externals but as chaff and dust,  
In 〈◊〉 of inward beauties, which in form  
The Intelligences of our souls, and make them  
Comply with Heaven and Immortality.  
Lastly, where all the Deities invested  
In their divinest purities, did dwell.  
As 'twere in a compendious Capitol.  Tyro. 
But Cicero's reverend head was not enough;  
The hands that wrote those glorious philippics  
Must be cut off too.  Laur. 
Those illustrious hands  
Which once held up this tottering commonwealth,  
And see her on her feet, when she was falling  
From her proud orb into a gulf of Fire.  Tyro. 
That head, those hands, are both divorced, & severed  
From his now moldred 〈◊〉, and no doubt  
Are by this time Antonius' game and sport;  
For Laenas posted with them to the City.  Pomp. 
Why, here's a story at whose sad 〈◊〉,  
Democritus might change his laughing humour  
And side with 〈◊〉. As for me  
I cannot weep; but Laureas, prithee tell me  
How came Popilius to find you out?  
Me thinks he could not, without information,  
So shrewdly light upon the self same way  
Which you had took before him; was it fate?  Laur. 
'Twas fate, that's certain Madam, 'twas, but 〈◊〉  
There was an engine which the Destinies  
Did make their agent.  Pomp. 
Whom?  Tyro. 
Philologus.  Pomp. 
Philologus?  Laur. 
Ay, he betrayed your brother.  
The Oracle from which he learned the mysteries  
Of pure Philosophy. He, he it was  
Who, being left behind us at the house,  
Revealed the way we took unto the colonel.  Pomp. 
And where's the villain?  Laur. 
Brought by Laenas hither  
To be rewarded of Antonius  
As for a service of egregious merit.  Pomp. 
Ay, so he shall, I'll see his wages paid.  Exit Pomp. Laur. 
Come Tyro, since our day is set for ever,  
we'll live like owls, those Citizens of Night.  
Like owls indeed, but like Athenian owls;  
Thou shalt sublime thy pen, and write the life  
Of our deceased Lord, that spotless life,  
Which virtue's self might mahe her meditation.  
Tyro thou shalt, and I poor Laureas, I  
Will sit and sigh forth mourning 〈◊〉  
Upon his death, he while he lived good man,  
Delighted in my Muse, and now my quill  
Shall consecrate his name toth' muse's hill.  Exeunt. Enter Antonius, Fulvia. Popilius Laenas crowned, Cicero's head in one hand, and his hands in the other. Ant. 
〈◊〉, 'twas nobly done, and thou hast well  
Deserved that crown which circles in thy Temples.  
The head of Marcus Tullius Cicero 〈◊〉  Takes it of Popilius. 
Why 'tis a Kingly present, Ha, ha, 〈◊〉  Derides and misuses it. Fulv. 
To me.  Ant. 
Rub and a good cast. Ha, ha, 〈◊〉  Fulv. 
Bravely bowled, 〈◊〉 faith.  
Come up here.  Takes it up, and sitting down places it upon her knees. 
Now I'll be revenged  
For your tart nipping jeers— yes Reverend Sir,  
Fulvia's indebted to the State:— too long.  Ex. 2. 〈◊〉. 
The no whit covetous wife of Antony,  
Whom you describe without all contumely,  
Owes the third pension to the Roman people.  
Indeed! but does she? yes, nor will I wrong  
The people of their due, the debt's thy tongue.  Cuts out his tongue. 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉. I war 〈◊〉 him for barking now.  
I will make better football than a bowl.  〈◊〉 away. Ant. 
Have at 〈◊〉,( coites the hands to the head.)  
Take them good Popilius,  
And place them on the Rostra, where he vomited  
His Philippisks against me. Let his head  
Be set betwixt his hands, 'twill be a brave  
And goodly spectacle.  〈◊〉. 
I will my Lord.  Exit. Ant. 
Do 〈◊〉 stab it; give't as many wounds  
As Julius Caesar had, whose 〈◊〉 murder,  
〈◊〉 worm extolled as an heroic deed.  
Well I must leave you for a while to meet  
My Colleagues, 〈◊〉 and Octavius Caesar.  Exit. 〈◊〉. 
That such a paltry thing as this should make  
So great a bustling in a Commonwealth?  
I heard my husband once compare his lungs  
To Vulcan's bellows, and his head to AEtna,  
His words to 〈◊〉, and this his tongue to fire.  
But now I think 'tis quenched, 〈◊〉 burns not now;  
Nay, 'tis as cold as stone, no thunder in't,  
No lightning flies from't. Sure this is not that  
Herculean tongue that lately was so weighty.  
That 〈◊〉 could 〈◊〉 such giants of the State  
As it hath done to Nothing. Yes the same.  
Then Fulvia march along, and 〈◊〉 fear,  
Thou 〈◊〉 that 〈◊〉 upon thy silver spear.  Exit. Enter Pomponia. Pomp. 
Anger will give me strength, bloody Antonius  
Thou shalt not thus evade; as once the stout  
And stern 〈◊〉 foiled the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Or as th' enraged Maenas armed with 〈◊〉,  
With 〈◊〉 directed by inspired force,  
〈◊〉 the woods, and quite distract makes gush,  
The blood which she perceives not; will I rush  
Upon these 〈◊〉 cannibals; if I die  
I shall enjoy my Quintus company.  
Alas, alas! what foolish rage is this?  
We must appeal 〈◊〉 heaven when we are wronged,  
And not be our own carvers, Such State- 〈◊〉  
Must have a 〈◊〉 to curb them. Yet 〈◊〉,  
That traitorous 〈◊〉, that ungrateful 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 not my husband's 〈◊〉,  
〈◊〉 the divinest precepts of my brother,  
Could keep within the bounds of faith and piety,  
He, he shall 〈◊〉 if I live, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉!  Flourish. Enter Antonius, Lepidus', Octavius, Piso, and others. Pomponia. 
Cruel 〈◊〉, though thou hast unlived  
My honoured husband, my beloved son,  
Though thou hast slain my brother, and with him  
Rent up the very groundwork of our Capitol.  
And shown more cruelty to those sacred 〈◊〉  
Of his dissolved corpse, than Victory  
Did perpetrate on the AEmathian Perseus  
On the triumphed Jugurth, and King Syphax,  
Or Hannibal himself, not one of whom  
Was sent defective to the lower shades  
With members violated, yet I come not,  
Like the poor widowed Hecuba, to 〈◊〉  
And tell thee to what depth thou hast 〈◊〉  
The laws of goodness, and religious Nature,  
Making thyself the hate of men and Gods,  
Nor do I come to beg thy infamous sword  
To rip that womb whose fruit thou hast destroyed,  
Though I would 〈◊〉 my destiny. No Antony,  
But only to put up a fair Petition,  
Whose grant will somewhat wipe away the rust  
Which sullies thy bad name, and make 〈◊〉  
Say thou 〈◊〉 something worthy of a Roman,  
And thy renowned stock; and this it is,  
By all that's 〈◊〉 unto thee, I beseech 〈◊〉  
Shelter not treason, but deliver me  
The villain that betrayed my brother 〈◊〉.  Ant. 
Philologus?  Pomp. 
Ay, 〈◊〉 Sir.  Ant. 
Bring him forth.  
Though such a treason was expedient,  
Yet such a Traitor must not live.  Caes. 
My Lord,  
You are most just 〈◊〉.  Lep. 
So says Lepidus'.  Piso. 
'tis godlike equity.  Enter with Phil. Ant. 
Pomponia take him, he's at your disposing.  Pomp. 
You heard that, Varlet, now you're mine again;  
I'll make you 〈◊〉 to a more hellish vulture  
Then that of Tityus, thou thyself shalt slice  
Thy own foul flesh by morsels off, and make  
Thy own gaunt entrails thy own sepulchre;  
Nay 'tis in 〈◊〉.  Phil. 
For heaven's sake, good my Lord.  She drags him out. Enter Popilius 〈◊〉. Popil. 
My Lord, the Tribune Publius Apuleius  
Is with his wife escaped away by flight.  Ant. 
No matter, my long wished for aim is won,  
And Cicero slain, the whole prescription's done.  
FINIS.