That I am thine) in jealousy pursues us. No, 'tis a secret cross, an unknown thing, That I receiv'd from heaven at my birth, That I should heap misfortunes on their head, Whom once I had receiv'd in marriage-bed. Then ye, the noble Romulists that rest, Henceforth forbear to seek my murdering love, And let their double loss, that held me dear, Bid you beware, for fear you be beguil'd. Ye may be rich, and great in Fortune's grace, And all your hopes with hap may be effected; But if ye once be wedded to my love, Clouds of adversity will cover you. So pestilently fraught with change of plagues Is mine infected bosom from my youth. Like poison that (once lighting on the body) No sooner toucheth than it taints the blood; One while the heart, another while the liver (According to th' encountering passages), Nor spareth it what purely feeds the heart, More than the most infected filthiest part, Pompey, what holp it thee (say, dearest life), Tell me what holp thy warlike valiant mind T' encounter with the least of my mishaps? What holp it thee, that under thy command Thou saw'st the trembling earth with horror maz'd? Or where the sun forsakes th' ocean sea, Or watereth his coursers in the west, T' have made thy name be far more fam'd and fear'd, Than summer's thunder to the silly herd? What holp it, that thou saw'st, when thou wert young, Thy helmer deck'd with coronets of bays? So many enemies, in battle rang'd, Beat back like flies before a storm of hail? T' have look'd askance, and see so many kings To lay their crowns and sceptres at thy feet? T' embrace thy knees, and, humbled by their fate, T' attend thy mercy in this mournful state? Alas, and herewithal what holp it thee, That even in all the corners of the earth Thy wand'ring glory was so greatly known, And that Rome saw thee, while thou triumph'dst thrice O'er three parts of the world that thou had'st yok'd; That Neptune, welt'ring on the windy plains, Escap'd not free from thy victorious hands; Since thy hard hap, since thy fierce destiny, (Envious of all thine honours) gave thee me, By whom the former course of thy fair deeds Might (with a biting bridle) be restrain'd: By whom the glory of thy conquests got Might die disgrac'd with mine unhappiness. O hapless wife! thus ominous to all, Worse than Megæra, worse than any plague; What foul infernal, or what stranger hell Henceforth wilt thou inhabit, where thy hap None other's hopes with mischief may entrap? CICERO. What end, O race of Scipio, will the Fates Afford your tears? Will that day never come, That your disastrous griefs shall turn to joy, And we have time to bury our annoy?