The Tragedie of Cæsar and Pompey.

Hearke how the Romaine drums sound bloud & death, And Mars high mounted on his Thracian Steede: Runs madding through Pharsalias purple fieldes. The earth that’s wont to be a Tombe for Men It’s now entomb’d with Carkases of Men. The Heauen appal’d to see such hideous sights, For feare puts out her euer burning lights. The Gods amaz’d (as once in Titans war,) 10 Do doubt and feare, which boades this deadly iar The starrs do tremble, and forsake their course, The Beare doth hide her in forbidden Sea, Feare makes Bootes swiften her slowe pace, Pale is Orion, Atlas gins to quake, And his vnwildy burthen to forsake. Cæsars keene Falchion, through the Aduerse rankes, For his sterne Master hewes a passage out, Through troupes & troonkes, & steele, & standing blood: He whose proud Trophies whileom Asia field, 20 And conquered Pontus, singe his lasting praise. Great Pompey; Great, while Fortune did him raise, Nowe vailes the glory of his vanting plumes And to the ground casts of his high hang’d lookes. You gentle Heauens. O execute your wrath On vile mortality, that hath scornd your powers. You night borne Sisters to whose haires are ty’d In Adamantine Chaines both Gods and Men Winde on your webbe of mischiefe and of plagues, And if, O starres you haue an influence: 30 That may confounde this high erected heape Downe powre it; Vomit out your worst of ills Let Rome, growne proud, with her vnconquered strength, Perish and conquered Be with her owne strength: And win all powers to disioyne and breake, Consume, confound, dissolue, and discipate What Lawes, Armes and Pride hath raised vp.

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

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.

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.

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.