ACT. 5. SCE 1. {SN _Chor. V_}

_Enter Discord._

_Dis._ The balefull haruest of my ioy, thy woe Gins ripen _Brutus_, Heauens commande it so. 2130 Pale sad _Auernus_ opes his yawning Iawes, Seeking to swallow vp thy murtherous soule, The furies haue proclaym'd a festiuall: And meane to day to banquet with thy bloud, Now Heauens array you in your clowdy weedes: Wrap vp the beauty of your glorious lamp, And dreadfull _Chaos_, of sad drery night, Thou Sunne that climest vp to the easterne hill: And in thy Chariot rides with swift steedes drawne, In thy proud Iollity and radiant glory: 2140 Go back againe and hide thee in the sea, Darkenesse to day shall couer all the world: Let no light shine, but what your swords can strike, From out their steely helmes, and fiery shildes: Furies, and Ghosts, with your blue-burning lampes, In mazing terror ride through _Roman_ rankes: With dread affrighting those stout Champions hearts, All stygian fiendes now leaue whereas you dwell: And come into the world and make it h.e.l.l.

{SN _Act. V sc. i_}

_Enter Ca.s.sius, Brutus, t.i.tinnius, Cato Iunior, with an army marching_

_Casi._ Thus far wee march with vnresisted armes, 2152 Subduing all that did our powres with-stand: _Laodicia_ whose high reared walles, Faire _Lyeas_ washeth with her siluer waue: And that braue monument of _Perseus_ fame, With _Tursos_ vaild to vs her vanting pride, Faire _Rhodes_, I weepe to thinke vpon thy fall; Thou wert to stubberne, else thou still hadst stood, Inviolate of _Ca.s.sius_ hurtles hand, 2160 That was my nurse, where in my youth I drew The flowing milke of Greekish eloquence: Proud _Capadocia_ sawe her King captiu'd, (And _Dolabella_ vanting in the spoyles.

Of slayne _Trebonius_) fall as springing tree, Seated in louely _Tempes_ pleasant shades: Whom beuteous spring with blossoms braue hath deckt, And sweete _Fauonia_ manteled all in greene, By winters rage doth loose his flowry pride, And hath each twigg bar'd by northerne winds. 2170 Thus from the conquest of proud _Palestine_, Hether in triumph haue we march'd along, Making our force-commaunding rule to stretch, From faire _Euphrates_ christall flowing waues Vnto the Sea which yet weepes _Io's_ death, Slayne by great _Hercules_ repenting hand, _Bru._ Of all the places by my sword subdued, Pitty of thee poore _Zanthus_ moues me most; Thrise hast thou ben beseeged by thy foe, And thrise to saue thy liberty hast felt 2180 The fatall flames of thine owne cruell hand.

First being beseeg'd by _Harpalus_ the _Mede_, The sterne performer of proud _Cyrus_ wrath: Next when the _Macedonian Phillips_ sonne, Did rayse his engines gainst thy battered walls, Proud _Zanthus_ that did scorne to beare the yoake, That all the world was forced to sustaine, Last when that I my selfe did guirt thy walls, With troopes of high resolued _Roman_ hearts, Rather then thou wouldest yeeld to _Brutus_ sword, 2190 Or stayne the mayden honour of thy Towne, Did'st sadly fall as proud _Numantia_.

Scorning to yeeld to conquering _Scipios_ power.

_Cas._ And now to thee _Phillipi_, are wee come, Whose fields must twise feele _Roman_ cruelty, And flowing blood like to _Daercean_ playnes, When proud _Eteocles_ on his foaming steede, Rides in his fury through the _Argean_ troopes, Now making great _aerastus_ giue him way, Now beating back _Tidaeus_ puissant might: 2200 The ground not dry'd from sad _Pharsalian_ blood, Will now bee turned to a purple lake: And bleeding heapes and mangled bodyes slayne, Shall make such hills as shall surpa.s.se in height The Snowy Alpes and aery _Appenines_, _t.i.ti._ A Scout brought word but now that he descryd, Warlike _Anthonius_ and young _Caesars_ troopes, Marching in fury ouer _Thessalian_ playnes.

As great _Gradinus_ when in angry moode, He driues his chariot downe from heauens top, 2210 And in his wheels whirleth reueng and death: Heere by _Phillippi_ they will pich their tents, And in these fieldes (fatall to _Roman_ liues.) Hazard the fortune of the doubtfull fight, _Cat._ O welcome thou this long expected day, On which dependeth _Romane_ liberty, Now _Rome_ thy freedom hangeth in suspence, And this the day that must a.s.sure thy hopes.

_Ca.s.si._ Great _Ioue_, and thou _Trytonyan_ warlike Queene: Arm'd with thy amazing deadly _Gorgons_ head. 2220 Strenghen our armes that fight for _Roman_ welth: And thou sterne _Mars_, and _Romulus_ thy Sonne, Defend that Citty which your selfe begun.

All heauenly powers a.s.sist our rightfull armes, And send downe siluer winged victory, To crowne with Lawrells our triumphant Crests.

_Bru._ My minde thats trobled in my vexed soule, (Opprest with sorrow and with sad dismay,) Misgiues me this wilbe a heauy day.

_Ca.s.si._ Why faynt not now in these our last extremes, 2230 This time craues courage not dispayring feare, _t.i.tin._ Fie, twill distayne thy former valiant acts.

To say thou faintest now in this last act, _Bru._ My mind is heauy, and I know not why, But cruell fate doth sommon me to die, _Cato._ Sweet _Brute_, let not thy words be ominous signes, Of so mis-fortunnate and sad euent, Heauen and our Vallour shall vs conquerours make.

_Ca.s.si._ What b.a.s.t.a.r.d feare hath taunted our dead hearts, Or what vnglorious vnwounted thought, 2240 Hath changed the vallour of our daunted mindes.

What are our armes growne weaker then they were?

Cannot this hand that was proud _Caesars_ death, Send all _Caesarians_ headlong that same path?

Looke how our troups in Sun-bright armes do shine, With vaunting plumes and dreadfull brauery.

The wrathful steedes do check their iron bits, And with a well grac'd terror strike the ground, And keeping times in warres sad harmony.

And then hath _Brutus_ any cause to feare, 2250 My selfe like valiant _Peleus_ worthy Sonne, The n.o.blest wight that eur _Troy_ beheld, Shall of the aduerse troopes such hauock make, As sad _Phillipi_ shall in blood bewayle, The cruell ma.s.sacre of _Ca.s.sius_ sword, And then hath _Brutus_ any cause to feare?

_Bru._ No outward shewes of puissance or of strength, Can helpe a minde dismayed inwardly, Leaue me sweete Lordes a while vnto my selfe.

_Ca.s.si._ In the meane time take order for the fight, 2260 Drums let your fearefull mazing thunder playe.

And with their sound peirce Heauens brazen Towers, And all the earth fill with like fearefull noyse, As when that _Boreas_ from his Iron caue.

With boysterous furyes Striuing in the waues, Comes swelling forth to meet his bl.u.s.tering foe, They both doe runne with feerce tempestuous rage, And heaues vp mountaynes of the watry waues.

The G.o.d _Ocea.n.u.s_ trembles at the stroke, _Bru._ What hatefull furyes vex my tortured mind? 2270 What hideous sightes appalle my greeued soule, As when _Orestes_ after mother slaine.

Not being yet at _Scithians_ Alters purged, Behould the greesly visages of fiends.

And gastly furies which did haunt his steps, _Caesar_ vpbraues my sad ingrat.i.tude, He saued my life in sad _Pharsalian_ fieldes, That I in _Senate_ house might worke his death.

O this remembrance now doth wound my soule, More then my poniard did his bleeding heart, 2280

_Enter Ghost._

_Gho._ _Brutus_, ingratefull _Brutus_ seest thou mee: Anon In field againe thou shalt me see, _Bru._ Stay what so ere thou art, or fiend below, Rays'd from the deepe by inchanters b.l.o.o.d.y call, Or fury sent from _Phlegitonticke_ flames, Or from _Cocytus_ for to end my life, Be then _Megera_ or _Tysiphone_, Or of _Eumenides_ ill boading crue.

Fly me not now, but end my wretched life, 2290 Comegreesly messenger of sad mishap, Trample in blood of him that hates to liue, And end my life and sorrow all at once.

_Gho._ Accursed traytor d.a.m.ned _Homicide_, Knowest thou not me, to whome for forty honors: Thou three and twenty Gastly wounds didst giue?

Now dare no more for to behould the Heauens, For they to Day haue destyned thine end: Nor lift thy eyes vnto the rising sunne, That nere shall liue for to behould it set, 2300 Nor looke not downe vnto the h.e.l.lish shades, There stand the furyes thursting for thy blood, Flie to the field but if thou thither go'st, There _Anthonyes_ sword will peirce thy trayterous heart.

_Brutus_ to daie my blood shalbe reuenged, And for my wrong and vndeserued death, Thy life to thee a torture shall become, And thou shalt oft amongest the dying grones, Of slaughtered men that bite the bleeding earth.

Wish that like balefull cheere might thee befall, 2310 And seeke for death that flies so wretched wight, Vntill to shunne the honour of the fight, And dreadfull vengeance of supernall ire.

Thine owne right hand shall worke my wish'd reueng, And so Fare ill, hated of Heauen and Men.

_Bru._ Stay _Caesar_ stay, protract my greife no longer, Rip vp my bowells glut thy thirsting throte, With pleasing blood of _Caesars_ guilty heart: But see hee's gon, and yonder Murther stands: See how he poynts his knife vnto my hart. 2320 _Althea_ raueth for her murthered Sonne, And weepes the deed that she her-selfe hath done: And _Meleager_ would thou liuedst againe, But death must expiate. _Altheas_ come.

I, death the guerdon that my deeds deserue: The drums do thunder forth dismay and feare, And dismall triumphes found my fatall knell, Furyes I come to meete you all in h.e.l.l,

{SN _Act V sc. ii_}

_Enter Cato wounded._

_Cato._ Bloodles and faynt; _Cato_ yeelde vp thy breath; While strength and vigour in these armes remaynd, 2331 And made me able for to wield my sword, So long I fought; and sweet _Rome_ for thy sake Fear'd not effusion of my blood to make.

But now my strength and life doth fayle at once, My vigor leaues my could and feeble Ioynts, And I my sad soule, must power forth in blood.

O vertue whome _Phylosophy_ extols.

Thou art no essence but a naked name, Bond-slaue to Fortune, weake, and of no power, 2340 To succor them which alwaies honourd thee: Witnesse my Fathers and mine owne sad death, Who for our country spent our latest breath: But oh the chaines of death do hold my toung, Mine eyes wax dim I faynt, I faynt, I die.

O Heauens help _Rome_ in this extremity.

{SN _Act V sc. iii_}

_Ca.s.s._ Where shall I goe to tell the saddest tale, That ere the _Romane_ toung was forc'd to speake, _Rome_ is ouerthrowne, and all that for her fought: This Sunne that now hath seen so many deaths, 2350 When from the Sea he heaued his cloudy head, Then both the armes full of hope and feare, Did waite the dreadfull trumpets fatall sound, And straight Reuenge from _Stygian_ bands let loose, Possessed had all hearts and banished thence, Feare of their children, wife and little home.

Countryes remembrance, and had quite expeld, With last departed care of life it selfe: Anger did sparkell from our beautious eyes, Our trembling feare did make our helmes to shake, 2360 The horse had now put on the riders wrath, And with his hoofes did strike the trembling earth, When _Echalarian_ soundes then both gin meete: Both like enraged, and now the dust gins rise, And Earth doth emulate the Heauens cloudes, Then yet beutyous was the face of cruell war: And goodly terror it might seeme to be, Faire shieldes, gay swords, and goulden crests did shine.

Their spangled plumes did dance for Iolity, As nothing priuy to their Masters feare, 2370 But quickly rage and cruell _Mars_ had staynd, This shining glory with a sadder hew, A cloud of dartes that darkened Heauens light, Horror insteed of beauty did suceede.

And her bright armes with dust and blood were foyld: Now _Lucius_ fals, heare _Drusus_ takes his end, Here lies _Hortensius_, weltring in his goare.

Here, there, and euery where men fall and die, Yet _Ca.s.sius_ shew not that thy heart doth faynt: But to the last gasp for _Romains_ freedom fight, 2380 And when sad death shall be thy labors end, Yet boast thy life thou didst for Country spend.

{SN _Act V sc. iv_}

_Enter Anthony._

_Ant._ Queene of Reuenge imperious _Nemesis_, That in the wrinkels of thine angry browes, Wrapst dreadfull vengance and pale fright-full death: Raine downe the bloudy showers of thy reuenge, And make our swordes the fatall instruments, To execute thy furious bale-full Ire, Let grim death seate her on my Lances point, 2390 Which percing the weake armour of my foes, Shall lodge her there within there coward brestes, Dread, horror, vengance, death, and bloudy hate: In this sad fight my murthering sworde awaite. _Exit_

{SN _Act V sc. v_}

_Enter t.i.tinnius._

_t.i.tin._ Where may I flie from this accursed soyle, Or shunne the horror of this dismall day: The Heauens are colour'd in mourning sable weedes, The Sunne doth hide his face, and feares to see, This bloudy conflict; sad _Catastrophe_, 2400 Nothing but grones of dying men are heard: Nothing but bloud and slaughter may bee seene And death, the same in sundry shapes araied.

_Enter Ca.s.sius._

_Casi._ In vaine, in vaine, O _Ca.s.sius_ all in vaine, Tis Heauen and destiny thou striuest against.

_t.i.tin._ VVhat better hope or more accepted tydinges, Ist n.o.ble _Ca.s.sius_ from the Battell bringes?

_Ca.s.si._ This haples hope that fates decreed haue, _Philippi_ field must bee our haples graue. 2410 _t.i.tin._ And then must this accurs'd and fatall day, End both our liues and _Romane_ liberty: Must now the name of freedome bee forgot, And all _Romes_ glory in _Thessalia_ end?

_Casi._ As those that lost in boysterous troublous seas, Beaten with rage of Billowes stormy strife: And without starres do sayle 'gainst starres and winde.

In drery darkenesse and in chereles night, Without or hope or comfort endles are: So are my thoughts deiected with dismay, 2420 Which can nought looke for but poore _Romes_ decay.

But yet did _Brutus_ liue, did hee but breath?

Or lay not slumbering in eternall night, His welfare might infuse some hope, or life: Or at the least bring death with more content: Weried I am through labour of the fight: Then sweete _t.i.tinnius_, range thou through the fielde, And either glad me with my friends successe, Or quickly tell mee what my care doth feare: How breathles hee vpon the ground doth lie, 2430 That at thy words, I may fall downe and die.

_t.i.tin._ _Ca.s.sius_, I goe to seeke thy n.o.ble friend, Heauen grant my goings haue a prosperous end.

_Ca.s.si._ O go _t.i.tinnius_, and till thy returne, Heere will I sit disconsolate alone, _Romes_ sad mishap, and mine owne woes to moone: O ten times treble fortunate were you, VVhich in _Pharsalias_ bloudy conflict dyed, VVith those braue Lords, now layed in bed of fame: VVhich neere protected their most blessed dayes, 2440 To see the horror of this dismall fight, VVhy died I not in those _aemathian_ playnes, VVhere great _Domitius_ fell by _Caesars_ hand?

And swift _Eurypus_ downe his bloudy streame Bare shieldes and helmes and traines of slaughter'd men, But Heauens reserud mee to this luckles day, To see my Countries fall and friends decay.

But why doth not _t.i.tinnius_ yet returne?