O gods, that erst of Carthage took some care, Which by our fathers pitiless was spoil'd; When thwarting destiny at Afric walls Did topside-turvey turn their commonwealth; When forceful weapons fiercely took away Their soldiers, sent to nourish up those wars; When (fir'd) their golden palaces fell down; When through the slaughter th' Afric seas were dy'd, And sacred temples quenchlessly enflam'd. Now is our hapless time of hopes expir'd. Then satisfy yourself with this revenge, Content to count the ghosts of those great captains, Which (conquer'd) perish'd by the Roman swords. The Hannos, the Hamilcars, Hasdrubals, Especially that proudest Hannibal, That made the fair Thrasymene so desert: For even those fields that mourn'd to bear their bodies, Now (loaden) groan to feel the Roman corses. Their earth we purple o'er, and on their tombs We heap our bodies, equalling their ruin. And as a Scipio did reverse their power, They have a Scipio to revenge them on. Weep therefore, Roman dames, and from henceforth Vailing your crystal eyes to your fair bosoms, Rain showers of grief upon your roselike cheeks, And dew yourselves with spring-tides of your tears. Weep, ladies, weep, and with your reeking sighs Thicken the passage of the purest clouds, And press the air with your continual plaints. Beat at your ivory breasts, and let your robes (Defac'd and rent) be witness of your sorrows. And let your hair, that wont be wreath'd in tresses. Now hang neglectly, dangling down your shoulders, Careless of art or rich accoutrements, That with the gold and pearl we us'd before Our mournful habits may be deck'd no more. Alas! what shall I do? O dear companions, Shall I, O, shall I live in these laments? Widow'd of all my hopes, my haps, my husbands, And last, not least, bereft of my best father; And of the joys mine ancestors enjoy'd, When they enjoy'd their lives and liberty? And must I live to see great Pompey's house, A house of honour and antiquity, Usurp'd in wrong by lawless Antony? Shall I behold the sumptuous ornaments, Which both the world and fortune heap'd on him, Adorn and grace his graceless enemy? Or see the wealth that Pompey gain'd in war, Sold at a pike,[383] and borne away by strangers? Die, rather, die, Cornelia; and to spare Thy worthless life, that yet must one day perish. Let not these captains vainly lie interr'd, Or Cæsar triumph in thine infamy, That wert the wife to th' one, and th' other's daughter. But if I die, before I have entomb'd My drowned father in some sepulchre, Who will perform that care in kindness for me? Shall his poor wand'ring limbs lie still tormented, Toss'd with the salt waves of the wasteful seas? No, lovely father and my dearest husband,