_Ant._ The ceasles thought of my felicitie Plunges me more in this aduersitie._ For nothing so a man in ill torments, As who to him his good state represents. _This makes my rack, my anguish, and my woe Equall vnto the hellish passions growe, When I to minde my happie puisance call Which erst I had by warlike conquest wonne, And that good fortune which me neuer left, Which hard disastre now hath me bereft. With terror tremble all the world I made At my sole worde, as Rushes in the streames At waters will: I conquer’d Italie, I conquer’d _Rome_, that Nations so redoubt. I bare (meane while besieging _Mutina_) Two Consuls armies for my ruine brought, Bath’d in their bloud, by their deaths witnessing My force and skill in matters Martiall. To wreake thy vnkle, vnkinde _Cæsar_, I With bloud of enemies the bankes embru’d Of stain’d _Enipeus_, hindering his course Stopped with heapes of piled carcases: When _Cassius_ and _Brutus_ ill betide Marcht against vs, by vs twise put to flight, But by my sole conduct: for all the time _Cæsar_ heart-sicke with feare and feauer laie. Who knowes it not? and how by euery one Fame of the fact was giu’n to me alone. There sprang the loue, the neuer changing loue, Wherein my hart hath since to yours bene bound: There was it, my _Lucil_, you _Brutus_ sau’de, And for your _Brutus_ _Antonie_ you found. Better my happ in gaining such a frende, Then in subduing such an enemie. Now former vertue dead doth me forsake, Fortune engulfes me in extreame distresse: She turnes from me her smiling countenance, Casting on me mishapp vpon mishapp, Left and betraide of thousand thousand frends, Once of my sute, but you _Lucil_ are left, Remaining to me stedfast as a tower In holy loue, in spite of fortunes blastes. But if of any God my voice be heard, And be not vainely scatt’red in the heau’ns, Such goodnes shall not glorilesse be loste, But comming ages still therof shall boste. _Lu._ Men in their frendship euer should be one, And neuer ought with fickle Fortune shake, Which still remoues, nor will, nor knowes the way, Her rowling bowle in one sure state to staie. Wherfore we ought as borrow’d things receiue The goods light she lends vs to pay againe: Not holde them sure, nor on them builde our hopes As one such goods as cannot faile, and fall: But thinke againe, nothing is dureable, Vertue except, our neuer failing hoste: So bearing saile when fauouring windes do blowe, As frowning Tempests may vs least dismaie When they on vs do fall: not ouer-glad With good estate, nor ouer-grieu’d with bad. Resist mishap. _Ant._ Alas! it is too stronge. Mishappes oft times are by some comfort borne: But these, ay me! whose weights oppresse my hart, Too heauie lie, no hope can them relieue. There rests no more, but that with cruell blade For lingring death a hastie waie be made.