_Ag._ Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe? For _Antonie_ why spend you teares in vaine? Why darken you with dole your victorie? Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie. Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods. _Cæs._ I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament, Although not I, but his owne pride the cause, And vnchaste loue of this _Ægyptian_. _Agr._ But best we sought into the tombe to gett, Lest shee consume in this amazed case So much rich treasure, with which happelie Despaire in death may make hir feed the fire: Suffring the flames hir Iewells to deface, You to defraud, hir funerall to grace. Sende then to hir, and let some meane be vs’d With some deuise so holde hir still aliue, Some faire large promises: and let them marke Whither they may by some fine conning slight Enter the tombes. _Cæsar._ Let _Proculeius_ goe, And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate. Assure hir so, that we may wholie gett Into our hands hir treasure and hir selfe. For this of all things most I doe desire To kepe hir safe vntill our going hence: That by hir presence beautified may be The glorious triumph _Rome_ prepares for me. Chorus of Romaine _Souldiors_. Shall euer ciuile hate gnaw and deuour our state? Shall neuer we this blade, Our bloud hath bloudie made, Lay downe? these armes downe lay As robes we weare alway? But as from age to age, So passe from rage to rage? Our hands shall we not rest To bath in our owne brest? And shall thick in each land Our wretched trophees stand, To tell posteritie, What madd Impietie Our stonie stomakes ledd Against the place vs bredd? Then still must heauen view The plagues that vs pursue: And euery where descrie Heaps of vs scattred lie, Making the straunger plaines Fatt with our bleeding raines, Proud that on them their graue So manie legions haue. And with our fleshes still _Neptune_ his fishes fill And dronke with bloud from blue The sea take blushing hue: As iuice of _Tyrian_ shell, When clarified well To wolle of finest fields A purple glosse it yelds. But since the rule of _Rome_, To one mans hand is come, Who gouernes without mate Hir now vnited state, Late iointlie rulde by three Enuieng mutuallie, Whose triple yoke much woe On _Latines_ necks did throwe: I hope the cause of iarre, And of this bloudie warre, And deadlie discord gone By what we last haue done: Our banks shall cherish now The branchie pale-hew’d bow Of _Oliue_, _Pallas_ praise, In stede of barraine bayes. And that his temple dore, Which bloudie _Mars_ before Held open, now at last Olde _Ianus_ shall make fast: And rust the sword consume, And spoild of wauing plume, The vseles morion shall On crooke hang by the wall. At least if warre returne