Cornelia. Then must I die.
Cicero. Yet dying think this still;
"No fear of death should force us to do ill."
Cornelia. If death be such, why is your fear so rife?
Cicero. My works will show I never fear'd my life.
Cornelia. And yet you will not that (in our distress),
We ask death's aid to end life's wretchedness.
Cicero. "We neither ought to urge, nor ask a thing,
Wherein we see so much assurance lies.
But if perhaps some fierce, offended king,
(To fright us) set pale death before our eyes,
To force us do that goes against our heart;
'Twere more than base in us to dread his dart.
But when, for fear of an ensuing ill,
We seek to shorten our appointed race,
Then 'tis for fear that we ourselves do kill,
So fond we are to fear the world's disgrace."
Cornelia. 'Tis not for frailty or faint cowardice,
That men (to shun mischances) seek for death;
But rather he, that seeks it, shows himself
Of certain courage 'gainst uncertain chance.
"He that retires not at the threats of death,
Is not, as are the vulgar, slightly fray'd.[352]
For heaven itself, nor hell's infectious breath,
The resolute at any time have stayed.
And (sooth to say) why fear we, when we see
The thing we fear less than the fear to be?"
Then let me die, my liberty to save;
For 'tis a death to live a tyrant's slave.
Cicero. Daughter, beware how you provoke the heavens,
Which in our bodies (as a tower of strength)
Have plac'd our souls, and fortify'd the same;
As discreet princes set their garrisons
In strongest places of their provinces.
"Now, as it is not lawful for a man,
At such a king's departure or decease,
To leave the place, and falsify his faith;
So, in this case, we ought not to surrender
That dearer part, till heaven itself command it:
For as they lent us life to do us pleasure,
So look they for return of such a treasure."
Chorus. "Whate'er the massy earth hath fraight,
Or on her nurselike back sustains,
Upon the will of Heaven doth wait,
And doth no more than it ordains.
All fortunes, all felicities,
Upon their motion do depend:
And from the stars doth still arise
Both their beginning and their end.
The monarchies, that cover all
This earthly round with majesty,
Have both their rising and their fall
From heaven and heaven's variety.
Frail men, or man's more frail defence,
Had never power to practise stays
Of this celestial influence,
That governeth and guides our days.
No cloud but will be overcast;
And what now flourisheth, must fade;
And that that fades, revives at last,
To flourish as it first was made.
The forms of things do never die,
Because the matter that remains
Reforms another thing thereby,
That still the former shape retains.
The roundness of two bowls cross-cast,
(So they with equal pace be aim'd),
Shows their beginning by their last,
Which by old nature is new-fram'd.
So peopled cities, that of yore
Were desert field, where none would bide,
Become forsaken as before,
Yet after are re-edified."
Perceive we not a petty vein,
Cut from a spring by chance or art,
Engendereth fountains, whence again
Those fountains do to floods convert?
Those floods to waves, those waves to seas,
That oft exceed their wonted bounds:
And yet those seas (as heavens please)
Return to springs by under-grounds.
E'en so our city (in her prime)
Prescribing princes every thing,
Is now subdu'd by conquering time,
And liveth subject to a king,
And yet perhaps the sun-bright crown,
That now the tyrant's head doth deck,
May turn to Rome with true renown,
If fortune chance but once to check.
The stately walls that once were rear'd,
And by a shepherd's hands erect,
(With hapless brother's blood besmear'd)
Shall show by whom they were infect.
And once more unjust Tarquin's frown
(With arrogance and rage inflam'd)
Shall keep the Roman valour down,
And Rome itself a while be tam'd.
And chastest Lucrece once again
(Because her name dishonour'd stood)
Shall by herself be careless slain,
And make a river of her blood;
Scorning her soul a seat should build
Within a body basely seen,
By shameless rape to be defil'd,
That erst was clear as heaven's queen.
But, heavens, as tyranny shall yoke
Our bastard hearts with servile thrall;
So grant your plagues (which they provoke)
May light upon them once for all.
And let another Brutus rise,
Bravely to fight in Rome's defence,
To free our town from tyranny,
And tyranny's[353] proud insolence.