The Tragedy Of Caesar's Revenge

by Unknown

Enter Anthony, Dolobella, Lord and others.

An. From sad Pharsalia blushing al with bloud,
From deaths pale triumphes, Pompey ouerthrowne,
Romains in forraine soyles, brething their last,
Reuenge, stange wars and dreadfull stratagems,
Wee come to set the Lawrell on thy head
And fill thy eares with triumphs and with ioyes.
Dolo. As when that Hector from the Grecian campe 240
With spoiles of slaughtered Argians return’d,
The Troyan youths with crownes of conquering palme:
The Phrigian Virgins with faire flowry wrethes
Welcom’d the hope, and pride of Ilium,
So for thy victory and conquering actes
Wee bring faire wreths of Honor & renowne,
Which shall enternally thy head adorne.
Lord. Now hath thy sword made passage for thy selfe,
To wade in bloud of them that sought thy death,
The ambitious riuall of thine Honors high, 250
Whose mightinesse earst made him to be feard
Now flies and is enforc’d to giue thee place.
Whil’st thou remainst the conquering Hercules
Triumphing in thy spoyles and victories.
Cæs. When Phœbus left faire Thetis watery couch,
And peeping forth from out the goulden gate
Of his bright pallace, saw our battle rank’d:
Oft did hee seeke to turne his fiery steedes,
Oft hid his face, and shund such tragick sights
What stranger passest euer by this cost 260
Thee this accursed soyle distainde with blood
Not Christall riuers, are to quench thy thirst.
For goaring streames, their riuers cleerenesse staines:
Heere are no hils wherewith to feede thine eyes,
But heaped hils of mangled Carkases,
Heere are no birdes to please thee with their notes:
But rauenous Vultures, and night Rauens horse.
Anto. What meanes great Cæsar, droopes our generall,
Or melts in womanish compassion:
To see Pharsalias fieldes to change their hewe 270
And siluer streames be turn’d to lakes of blood?
Why Cæsar oft hath sacrific’d in France,
Millions of Soules, to Plutoes grisly dames:
And made the changed coloured Rhene to blush,
To beare his bloody burthen to the sea.
And when as thou in mayden Albion shore
The Romaine, Ægle brauely didst aduance,
No hand payd greater tribute vnto death,
No heart with more couragious Noble fire
And hope, did burne with glorious great intent. 280
And now shall passion base that Noble minde,
And weake euents that courrage ouercome?
Let Pompey proud, and Pompeys Complices
Die on our swords, that did enuie our liues,
Let pale Tysiphone be cloyd with bloud:
And snaky furies quench their longing thirst,
And Cæsar liue to glory in their end.
Cæs. They say when as the younger Affrican,
Beheld the mighty Carthage wofull fall:
And sawe her stately Towers to smoke from farre, 290
He wept, and princely teares ran downe his cheekes,
Let pity then and true compassion,
Moue vs to rue no traterous Carthage fall,
No barbarous periurd enemies decay,
But Rome our natiue Country, haples Rome,
Whose bowels to vngently we haue peerc’d,
Faire pride of Europe, Mistresse of the world,
Cradle of vertues, nurse of true renowne,
Whome Ioue hath plac’d in top of seauen hils:
That thou the lower worldes seauen climes mightst rule. 300
Thee the proud Parthian and the cole-black Moore,
The sterne Tartarian, borne to manage armes,
Doth feare and tremble at thy Maiesty.
And yet I bred and fostered in thy lappe,
Durst striue to ouerthrowe thy Capitol:
And thy high Turrets lay as low as hell.
Dolo. O Rome, and haue the powers of Heauen decreed,
When as thy fame did reach vnto the Skie,
And the wide Ocean was thy Empires boundes,
And thou enricht with spoyles of all the world, 310
Was waxen proud with peace and soueraine raigne:
That Ciuill warres should loose what Forraine won,
And peace his ioyes, be turn’d to luckles broyles.
Lord. O Pompey, cursed cause of ciuill warre,
Which of those hel-borne sterne Eumenides:
Inflam’d thy minde with such ambitious fire,
As nought could quench it but thy Countries bloud.
Dolo. But this no while thy valour doth destayne,
Which found’st vnsought for cause of ciuill broyles,
And fatall fuell which this fire enflamd. 320
Anto. Let then his death set period to this strife,
Which was begun by his ambitious life.
Cæs. The flying Pompey to Larissa hastes,
And by Thessalian Temple shapes his course:
Where faire Peneus tumbles vp his waues,
Him weele pursue as fast as he vs flies,
Nor he though garded with Numidian horse,
Nor ayded with the vnresisted powre:
The Meroe, or seauen mouth’d Nile can yeeld:
No not all Affrick arm’d in his defence 330
Shall serue to shrowd him from my fatall sworde. Exit.

Act I sc. ii ACT. I. SC. 4.

Enter Cato.

Ca. O where is banish’d liberty exil’d,
To Affrick deserts or to Scythia rockes,
Or whereas siluer streaming Tanais is?
Happy is India and Arabia blest,
And all the bordering regions vpon Nile
That neuer knew the name of Liberty,
But we that boast of Brutes and Colatins, 340
And glory we expeld proud Tarquins name,
Do greeue to loose, that we so long haue held.
Why reckon we our yeares by Consuls names:
And so long ruld in freedon, now to serue?
They lie that say in Heauen there is a powre
That for to wracke the sinnes of guilty men,
Holds in his hand a fierce three-forked dart.
Why would he throw them downe on Oéta mount
Or wound the vnderringing Rhodope,
And not rayne showers of his dead-doing dartes, 350
Furor in flame, and Sulphures smothering heate
Vpon the wicked and accurs’d armes
That cruell Romains ’gainst their Country beare.
Rome ware thy fall: those prodigies foretould,
When angry heauens did powre downe showers of blood
And fatall Comets in the heauens did blase,
And all the Statues in the Temple blast,
Did weepe the losse of Romaine liberty.
Then if the Gods haue destined thine end,
Yet as a Mother hauing lost her Sonne, 360
Cato shall waite vpon thy tragick hearse,
And neuer leaue thy cold and bloodles corse.
Ile tune a sad and dol-full funerall song,
Still crying on lost liberties sweete name,
Thy sacred ashes will I wash with teares,
And thus lament my Countries obsequies.

Act I sc. iii ACT. I. SC. 5.

Enter Pompey and Cornelia.

Cor. O cruel Pompey whether wilt thou flye,
And leaue thy poore Cornelia thus forlorne, 370
Is’t our bad fortune or thy cruell will
That still it seuers in extremity.
O let me go with thee, and die with thee,
Nothing shall thy Cornelia grieuous thinke
That shee endures for her sweete Pompeys sake.
Pom. Tis for thy weale and safty of thy life,
Whose safty I preferre before the world,
Because I loue thee more then all the world,
That thou (sweete loue) should’st heere remaine behinde
Till proofe assureth Ptolomyes doubted faith. 380
Cor. O deerest, what shall I my safty call,
That which is thrust in dangers harmefull mouth?
Lookes not the thing so bad with such a name,
Call it my death, my bale, my wo, my hell,
That which indangers my sweete Pompeys life.
Pom. It is no danger (gentle loue) at all,
Tis but thy feare that doth it so miscall.
Cor. Ift bee no danger let me go with thee,
And of thy safty a partaker bee,
Alas why would’st thou leaue mee thus alone: 390
Thinkst thou I cannot follow thee by Land
That thus haue followed thee ouer raging Seas,
Or do I varie in inconstant hopes:
O but thinke you my pleasure luckles is
And I haue made thee more vnfortunate.
Tis I, tis I, haue caus’d this ouerthrow,
Tis my accursed starres that boade this ill,
And those mis-fortunes to my princely loue,
Reuenge thee Pompey, on this wicked brat,
And end my woes by ending of my life, 400
Pom. What meanes my loue to aggrauate my griefe,
And torture my enough tormented Soule,
With greater greuance then Pharsalian losse?
Thy rented hayre doth rent my heart in twayne,
And these fayr Seas, that raine downe showers of tears,
Do melt my soule in liqued streames of sorrow.
If that in Ægipt any daunger bee,
Then let my death procure thy sweet liues safety,
Cor. Can I bee safe and Pompey in distresse,
Or may Cornelia suruiue they death, 410
What daunger euer happens to my Soule.
What daunger eke shall happen to my life,
Nor Libians quick-sands, nor the barking gulfe,
Or gaping Scylla shall this Vnion part,
But still Ile chayne thee in my twining armes,
And if I cannot liue Ile die with thee.
Pom. O how thy loue doth ease my greeued minde,
Which beares a burthen heauier then the Heauens,
Vnder the which steele-shouldred Atlas grones
But now thy loue doth hurt thy selfe and me, 420
And thy to ardent strong affection,
Hinders my setled resolution.
Then by this loue, and by these christall eyes,
More bright then are the Lamps of Ioues high house,
Let me in this (I feare) my last request.
Not to indanger thy beloued life,
But in this ship remayne, and here awaite,
How Fortune dealeth with our doubtfull State,
Cor. Not so perswaded as coniurd sweete loue,
By thy commanding meeke petition. 430
I cannot say I yeeld, yet am constraind,
This neuer meeting parting to permit,
Then go deere loue, yet stay a little while,
Some what I am shure, tis more I haue to say,
Nay nothing now but Heauens guide thy steps.
Yet let me speake, why should we part so soone,
Why is my talke tedious? may be tis the last.
Do women leaue their husbands in such hast,
Pom. More faithfull, then that fayre deflowred dame,
That sacrifizde her selfe to Chastety, 440
And far more louing then the Charian Queene,
That dranke her Husbands neuer sundred heart.
If that I dye, yet will it glad my soule,
Which then shall feede on those Elisian ioyes,
That in the sacred Temple of thy breast,
My liuing memory shall shrined bee.
But if that enuious fates should call thee hence,
And Death with pale and meager looke vsurpe,
Vpon those rosiate lips, and Currall cheekes,
Then Ayre be turnde, to poyson to infect me, 450
Earth gape and swallow him that Heauens hate,
Consume me Fire with thy deuouring flames,
Or Water drowne, who else would melt in teares.
But liue, liue happy still, in safety liue,
Who safety onely to my life can giue. Exit.
Cor. O he is gon, go hie thee after him,
My vow forbids, yet still my care is with thee,
My cryes shall wake the siluer Moone by night,
And with my teares I will salute the Morne.
No day shall passe with out my dayly plaints, 460
No houre without my prayers for thy returne.
My minde misgiues mee Pompey is betrayd.
O Ægypt do not rob me of my loue.
Why beareth Ptolomy so sterne a looke?
O do not staine thy childish yeares with blood:
Whil’st Pompey florished in his Fortunes pride,
Ægypt and Ptolomy were faine to serue
And shue for grace to my distressed Lord:
But little bootes it, to record he was,
To be is onely that which Men respect, 470
Go poore Cornelia wander by the shore
And see the waters raging Billowes swell,
And beate with fury gainst the craggy rockes,
To that compare thy strong tempestuous griefe.
Which fiercely rageth in thy feeble heart,
Sorrow shuts vp the passage of thy breath:
And dries the teares that pitty faine would shed,
This onely therefore, this will I still crie,
Let Pompey liue although Cornelia die. Exit.

Act I sc. iv ACTVS I. SCENA. 6.

Enter Cæsar, Cleopatra, Dolobella, Lord and others