Chorus. O poor Cornelia, have not we good cause,
For former wrongs to furnish us with tears?
Cornelia. O, but I fear that Fortune seeks new flaws,
And still (unsatisfied) more hatred bears.
Chorus. Wherein can Fortune farther injure us,
Now we have lost our conquer'd liberty,
Our commonwealth, our empire, and our honours,
Under this cruel Tarquin's tyranny?
Under this outrage now are all our goods,
Where scattered they run by land and sea
(Like exil'd us) from fertile Italy,
To proudest Spain or poorest Getuly.[354]
Cornelia. And will the heavens, that have so oft defended
Our Roman wars from fury of fierce kings,
Not once again return our senators,
That from the Libyc plains and Spanish fields
With fearless hearts do guard our Roman hopes?
Will they not once again encourage them
To fill our fields with blood of enemies,
And bring from Afric to our Capitol,
Upon their helms the empire that is stole?
Then, home-born household gods, and ye good spirits,
To whom in doubtful things we seek access,
By whom our family hath been adorn'd,
And graced with the name of African;
Do ye vouchsafe that this victorious title
Be not expired in Cornelia's blood?
And that my father now (in th' Afric wars)
The selfsame style by conquest may continue!
But, wretched that I am, alas, I fear—
Chorus. What fear you, madam?
Cornelius. That the frowning heavens
Oppose themselves against us in their wrath.
Chorus. Our loss (I hope) hath satisfied their ire.
Cornelia. O no, our loss lifts Cæsar's fortunes high'r.
Chorus. Fortune is fickle.
Cornelia. But hath fail'd him never.