Tit. The day is lost our hope and honours lost,
The glory of the Romaine name is lost, 40
The liberty and commonweale is lost,
The Gods that whileom heard the Romaine state,
And Quirinus, whose strong puissant arme,
Did shild the tops and turrets of proud Rome,
Do now conspire to wracke the gallant Ship,
Euen in the harbor of her wished greatnesse.
And her gay streamers, and faire wauering sayles,
With which the wanton wind was wont to play,
To drowne with Billows of orewhelming woes.
Bru. The Foe preuayles, Brutus, thou striuest in vaine.
Many a soule to day is sent to Hell,
And many a galant haue I don to death,
In Pharsalias bleeding Earth: the world can tell,
How litle Brutus praizd this puffe of breath,
If losse of that my countries weale might gaine,
But Heauens and the immortall Gods decreed:
That Rome in highest of her fortunes pich,
In top of souerainty and imperiall swaye.
By her owne height should worke her owne decay. 60
Enter Pompey
Pom. Where may I fly into some desert place,
Some vncouth, vnfrequented craggy rocke,
Where as my name and state was neuer heard.
I flie the Batle because here I see,
My friends lye bleeding in Pharsalias earth.
Which do remember me what earst I was,
Who brought such troopes of soldiars to the fielde,
And of so many thousand had command:
My flight a heauy memory doth renew, 70
Which tels me I was wont to stay and winne.
But now a souldier of my scatred traine:
Offered me seruice and did call me Lord,
O then I thought whome rising Sunne saw high,
Descending he beheld my misery:
Flie to the holow roote of some steepe rocke,
And in that flinty habitation hide,
Thy wofull face: from face and view of men.
Yet that will tell me this, if naught beside:
Pompey was neuer wont his head to hide 80
Flie where thou wilt, thou bearst about thee smart,
Shame at thy heeles and greefe lies at thy heart.
Tit. But see Titinius where two warriers stand,
Casting their eyes downe to the cheareles earthe:
Alasse to soone I know them for to bee
Pompey and Brutus, who like Aiax stand,
When as forsooke of Fortune mong’st his foes,
Greife stopt his breath nor could he speake his woes,
Pom. Accursed Pompey, loe thou art descried.
But stay; they are thy friends that thou behouldest, 90
O rather had I now haue met my foes:
Whose daggers poynts might straight haue piercd my woes
Then thus to haue my friends behold my shame.
Reproch is death to him that liu’d in Fame,
Bru. Brutus Cast vp thy discontented looke:
And see two Princes thy two noble friends,
Who though it greeues me that I thus them see,
Yet ioy I to bee seene they liuing be. He speakes vnto them.
Let not the change of this succesles fight,
(O noble Lords,) dismay these daunteles mindes, 100
Which the faire vertue not blind chance doth rule,
Cæsar not vs subdued hath, but Rome,
And in that fight twas best be ouerthrowne.
Thinke that the Conqueror hath won but smale,
Whose victory is but his Countries fal,
Pom. O Noble Brutus, can I liue and see,
My Souldiars dead, my friends lie slaine in field,
My hopes cast downe, mine Honors ouerthrowne,
My Country subiect to a Tirants rule,
My foe triumphing and my selfe forlorne. 110
Oh had I perished in that prosperous warre
Euen in mine Honors height, that happy day,
When Mithridates fall did rayse my fame:
Then had I gonne with Honor to my graue.
But Pompey was by envious heauens reseru’d,
Captiue to followe Cæsars Chariot wheeles
Riding in triumph to the Capitol:
And Rome oft grac’d with Trophies of my fame,
Shall now resound the blemish of my name.
Bru. Oh what disgrace can taunt this worthinesse, 120
Of which remaine such liuing monuments
Ingrauen in the eyes and hearts of men.
Although the oppression of distressed Rome
And our owne ouerthrow, might well drawe forth,
Distilling teares from faynting cowards eyes,
Yet should no weake effeminate passion sease
Vpon that man, the greatnesse of whose minde
And not his Fortune made him term’d the Great.
Pom. Oh I did neuer tast mine Honours sweete
Nor now can iudge of this my sharpest sowre. 130
Fifty eight yeares in Fortunes sweete soft lap
Haue I beene luld a sleepe with pleasant ioyes,
Me hath she dandled in her foulding Armes,
And fed my hopes with prosperous euentes:
Shee Crownd my Cradle with successe and Honour,
And shall disgrace a waite my haples Hearse?
Was I a youth with Palme and Lawrell girt,
And now an ould man shall I waite my fall?
Oh when I thinke but on my triumphs past,
The Consul-ships and Honours I haue borne; 140
The fame and feare where in great Pompey liu’d,
Then doth my grieued Soule informe me this,
My fall augmented by my former bisse.
Bru. Why do we vse of vertues strength to vant,
If euery crosse a Noble mind can daunt,
Wee talke of courage, then, is courage knowne,
When with mishap our state is ouerthrowne:
Neuer let him a Souldiers Title beare.
Wihch in the cheefest brunt doth shrinke and feare,
Thy former haps did Men thy vertue shew, 150
But now that fayles them which thy vertue knew,
Nor thinke this conquest shalbe Pompeys fall:
Or that Pharsalia shall thine honour bury,
Egipt shalbe vnpeopled for thine ayde.
And Cole-black Libians, shall manure the grounde
In thy defence with bleeding hearts of men.
Pom. O second hope of sad oppressed Rome,
In whome the ancient Brutus vertue shines,
That purchast first the Romaine liberty,
Let me imbrace thee: liue victorious youth, 160
When death and angry fates shall call me hence,
To free thy country from a Tyrants yoke.
My harder fortune, and more cruell starrs.
Enuied to me so great a happines.
Do not prolong my life with vaine false hopes,
To deepe dispaire and sorrow I am vow’d:
Do not remououe me from that setled thought,
With hope of friends or ayde of Ptolomey,
Egipt and Libia at choyse I haue.
But onely which of them Ile make my graue. 170
Tit. Tis but discomfort which misgreeues thee this,
Greefe by dispaire seemes greater then it is,
Bru. Tis womannish to wayle and mone our greefe,
By Industrie do wise men seeke releefe,
If that our casting do fall out a misse,
Our cunning play must then correct the dice.
Pom. Well if it needs must bee then let me goe,
Flying for ayde vnto my forrayne friends,
And sue and bow, where earst I did command.
He that goeth seeking of a Tirant aide, 180
Though free he went, a seruant then is made.
Take we our last farwell, then though with paine,
Heere three do part that ne’re shall meet againe.
Exit Pompey at on dore, Titinius at
another. Brutus alone
ACTVS I. SCENA 2.
Enter Cæsar
Cæs. Follow your chase, and let your light-foote steedes
Flying as swift as did that winged horse
That with strong fethered Pinions cloue the Ayre, 190
Or’take the coward flight of your base foe.
Bru. Do not with-drawe thy mortall woundring blade,
But sheath it Cæsar in my wounded heart:
Let not that heart that did thy Country wound
Feare to lay Brutus bleeding on the ground.
Thy fatall stroke of death shall more mee glad,
Then all thy proud and Pompous victories;
My funerall Cypresse, then thy Lawrell Crowne,
My mournefull Beere shall winne more Praise and Fame
Then thy triumphing Sun-bright Chariot. 200
Heere in these fatall fieldes let Brutus die,
And beare so many Romaines company.
Cæsa. T’was not ’gainst thee this fatall blade was drawne
Which can no more pierce Brutus tender sides
Then mine owne heart, or ought then heart more deere,
For all the wronges thou didst, or strokes thou gau’st
Cæsar on thee will take no worse reuenge,
Then bid thee still commande him and his state:
True setled loue can neere bee turn’d to hate.
Brut. To what a pitch would this mans vertues sore, 210
Did not ambition clog his mounting fame,
Cæsar thy sword hath all blisse from me taine
And giuest me life where best were to be slaine.
O thou hast robd me of my chiefest ioy,
And seek’st to please me with a babish toye. Exit Brutus.
Cæs. Cæsar Pharsalia doth thy conquest sound
Ioues welcom messenger faire Victory,
Hath Crown’d thy temples with victorious bay,
And Io ioyfull, Io doth she sing
And through the world thy lasting prayses ring. 220
But yet amidst thy gratefull melody
I heare a hoarse, and heauy dolfull voyce,
Of my deare Country crying, that to day
My Glorious triumphs worke her owne decay.
In which how many fatall strokes I gaue,
So many woundes her tender brest receiu’d.
Heere lyeth one that’s boucher’d by his Sire
And heere the Sonne was his old Fathers death,
Both slew vnknowing, both vnknowne are slaine,
O that ambition should such mischiefe worke 230
Or meane Men die for great mens proud desire.