Messenger. None resisting now,
The field was filled with all confusion,
Of murder, death, and direful massacres.
The feeble bands, that yet were left entire,
Had more desire to sleep than seek for spoil.
No place was free from sorrow; everywhere
Lay armed men, o'ertrodden with their horses;
Dismember'd bodies drowning in their blood,
And wretched heaps lie mourning of their maims,
Whose blood, as from a sponge, or bunch of grapes
Crush'd in a wine-press, gusheth out so fast,
As with the sight doth make the sound aghast.
Some should you see that had their heads half-cloven,
And on the earth their brains lie trembling.
Here one new-wounded helps another dying.
Here lay an arm, and there a leg lay shiver'd.
Here horse and man (o'erturned) for mercy cried,
With hands extended to the merciless,
That stopp'd their ears, and would not hear a word,
But put them all (remorseless) to the sword.
He that had hap to 'scape, doth help afresh
To reinforce the side whereon he serv'd.
But seeing that there the murd'ring enemy,
Pesle-mesle[380] pursued them like a storm of hail,
They 'gan retire, where Juba was encamp'd;
But there had Cæsar eftsoons tyrannis'd:
So that, despairing to defend themselves,
They laid aside their armour, and at last
Offer'd to yield unto the enemy;
Whose stony heart, that ne'er did Roman good,
Would melt with nothing but their dearest blood.
And Scipio thy father, when he beheld
His people so discomfited and scorn'd:
When he perceived the labour profitless,
To seek by new-encouraging his men
To come upon them with a fresh alarm:
And when he saw the enemies pursuit,
To beat them down as fierce as thund'ring flints,
And lay them level with the charged earth,
Like ears of corn with rage of windy show'rs,
Their battles scatter'd and their ensigns taken;
And (to conclude) his men dismay'd to see
The passage chok'd with bodies of the dead,
(Incessantly lamenting th' extreme loss
And suspirable death of so brave soldiers)
He spurs his horse, and (breaking through the press)
Trots to the haven, where his ships he finds,
And (hopeless) trusteth to the trustless winds.
Now had he thought to have arriv'd in Spain,
To raise new forces, and return to field;
But as one mischief draws another on,
A sudden tempest takes him by the way,
And casts him up near to the coasts of Hippon,[381]
Where th' adverse navy, sent to scour the seas,
Did hourly keep their ordinary course;
Where seeing himself at anchor slightly shipp'd:
Besieg'd, betray'd by wind, by land, by sea
(All raging-mad to rig his better vessels,
The little while this naval conflict lasted),
Behold, his own was fiercely set upon,
Which being sore beaten, till it brake again,
Ended the lives of his best fighting-men.
There did the remnant of our Roman nobles,
Before the foe and in their captain's presence,
Die bravely with their falchions in their fists.
When Scipio, that saw his ships through-gall'd,
And by the foe fulfill'd with fire and blood:
His people put to sword: sea, earth, and hell,
And heaven itself conjur'd to injure him—
Steps to the poop, and with a princely visage
Looking upon his weapon dy'd with blood,
Sighing he sets it to his breast, and said:
Since all our hopes are by the gods beguil'd,
What refuge now remains for my distress,
But thee, my dearest ne'er-deceiving sword?
Yea, thee, my latest fortune's firmest hope,
By whom I am assur'd this hap to have,
That, being freeborn, I shall not die a slave!
Scarce had he said, but, cruelly resolv'd,
He drench'd it to the pommel through his sides,
That fro' the wound the smoky blood ran bubbling.
Wherewith he stagger'd; and I stepp'd to him
To have embrac'd him: but he, being afraid
T' attend the mercy of his murd'ring foe,
That still pursued him, and oppress'd his ships,
Crawl'd to the deck, and, life with death to ease,
Headlong he threw himself into the seas.
Cornelia. O cruel gods! O heaven! O direful fates!
O radiant sun, that slightly gild'st our days!
O night-stars, full of infelicities!
O triple-titled Hecate, queen and goddess,
Bereave my life, or living strangle me!
Confound me quick, or let me sink to hell!
Thrust me fro' forth the world, that 'mongst the spirits
Th' infernal lakes may ring with my laments!
O miserable, desolate, distressful wretch,
Worn in mishaps, yet in mishaps abounding!
What shall I do, or whither shall I fly,
To venge this outrage, or revenge my wrongs?
Come, wrathful furies, with your ebon locks,
And feed yourselves with mine enflamed blood!
Ixion's torment, Sisyph's rolling stone,
And th' eagle tiring[382] on Prometheus,
Be my eternal tasks; that th' extreme fire
Within my heart may from my heart retire.
I suffer more, more sorrows I endure,
Than all the captives in th' infernal court.
O troubled fate! O fatal misery!
That unprovoked deal'st so partially.
Say, fretful heavens, what fault have I committed,
Or wherein could mine innocence offend you,
When (being but young) I lost my first love, Crassus?
Or wherein did I merit so much wrong,
To see my second husband, Pompey, slain?
But 'mongst the rest, what horrible offence,
What hateful thing, unthought of, have I done,
That, in the midst of this my mournful state,
Nought but my father's death could expiate?
Thy death, dear Scipio, Rome's eternal loss,
Whose hopeful life preserv'd our happiness;
Whose silver hairs encouraged the weak;
Whose resolutions did confirm the rest:
Whose end, sith it hath ended all my joys,
O heavens, at least permit of all these plagues
That I may finish the catastrophe;
Sith in this widowhood of all my hopes
I cannot look for further happiness.
For, both my husbands and my father gone,
What have I else to wreak your wrath upon?
Now as for happy thee, to whom sweet death
Hath given blessed rest for life's bereaving;
O envious Julia, in thy jealous heart
Venge not thy wrong upon Cornelia.
But, sacred ghost, appease thine ire, and see
My hard mishap in marrying after thee.
O, see mine anguish! haply seeing it,
'Twill move compassion in thee of my pains,
And urge thee, if thy heart be not of flint,
Or drunk with rigour, to repent thyself,
That thou enflam'dst so cruel a revenge
In Cæsar's heart upon so slight a cause;
And mad'st him raise so many mournful tombs,
Because thy husband did revive the lights
Of thy forsaken bed; unworthily
Opposing of thy fretful jealousy
'Gainst his mishap, as it my help had been,
Or as if second marriage were a sin.
Was never city, where calamity
Hath sojourn'd with such sorrow as in this?
Was never state, wherein the people stood
So careless of their conquer'd liberty,
And careful of another's tyranny?
O gods, that erst of Carthage took some care,
Which by our fathers pitiless was spoil'd;
When thwarting destiny at Afric walls
Did topside-turvey turn their commonwealth;
When forceful weapons fiercely took away
Their soldiers, sent to nourish up those wars;
When (fir'd) their golden palaces fell down;
When through the slaughter th' Afric seas were dy'd,
And sacred temples quenchlessly enflam'd.
Now is our hapless time of hopes expir'd.
Then satisfy yourself with this revenge,
Content to count the ghosts of those great captains,
Which (conquer'd) perish'd by the Roman swords.
The Hannos, the Hamilcars, Hasdrubals,
Especially that proudest Hannibal,
That made the fair Thrasymene so desert:
For even those fields that mourn'd to bear their bodies,
Now (loaden) groan to feel the Roman corses.
Their earth we purple o'er, and on their tombs
We heap our bodies, equalling their ruin.
And as a Scipio did reverse their power,
They have a Scipio to revenge them on.
Weep therefore, Roman dames, and from henceforth
Vailing your crystal eyes to your fair bosoms,
Rain showers of grief upon your roselike cheeks,
And dew yourselves with spring-tides of your tears.
Weep, ladies, weep, and with your reeking sighs
Thicken the passage of the purest clouds,
And press the air with your continual plaints.
Beat at your ivory breasts, and let your robes
(Defac'd and rent) be witness of your sorrows.
And let your hair, that wont be wreath'd in tresses.
Now hang neglectly, dangling down your shoulders,
Careless of art or rich accoutrements,
That with the gold and pearl we us'd before
Our mournful habits may be deck'd no more.
Alas! what shall I do? O dear companions,
Shall I, O, shall I live in these laments?
Widow'd of all my hopes, my haps, my husbands,
And last, not least, bereft of my best father;
And of the joys mine ancestors enjoy'd,
When they enjoy'd their lives and liberty?
And must I live to see great Pompey's house,
A house of honour and antiquity,
Usurp'd in wrong by lawless Antony?
Shall I behold the sumptuous ornaments,
Which both the world and fortune heap'd on him,
Adorn and grace his graceless enemy?
Or see the wealth that Pompey gain'd in war,
Sold at a pike,[383] and borne away by strangers?
Die, rather, die, Cornelia; and to spare
Thy worthless life, that yet must one day perish.
Let not these captains vainly lie interr'd,
Or Cæsar triumph in thine infamy,
That wert the wife to th' one, and th' other's daughter.
But if I die, before I have entomb'd
My drowned father in some sepulchre,
Who will perform that care in kindness for me?
Shall his poor wand'ring limbs lie still tormented,
Toss'd with the salt waves of the wasteful seas?
No, lovely father and my dearest husband,
Cornelia must live (though life she hateth)
To make your tombs, and mourn upon your hearses;
Where, languishing, my famous faithful tears
May trickling bathe your generous sweet cinders;
And afterward, both wanting strength and moisture,
Fulfilling with my latest sighs and gasps
The happy vessels that enclose your bones,
I will surrender my surcharged life;
And, when my soul earth's prison shall forego,
Increase the number of the ghosts below.
Non prosunt Domino, quæ prosunt omnibus, artes.
THO. KYD.
FINIS.
FOOTNOTES:
[370] Far gone in woe. Dr Warburton observes: "This word was common enough amongst the old Scottish and English poets, as G. Douglas, Chaucer, Lord Buckhurst, Fairfax." See Notes on "Second Part of Henry IV.," act i. sc. 1., by him and Mr Steevens. Again, in Erasmus's "Praise of Folie," sig. E 3: "As who before represented a kinge, being clothed all in purpre, havinge no more but shifted hymselfe litle, shoulde shew hymselfe agayne lyke a woo begon myser."
[371] [Old copies, nobles.]
[372] Thapsus, a maritime town in Africa, where Cæsar defeated the remains of Pompey's army.—Steevens.