CORNELIA. Ne'er shall I see that day; for heaven and time Have fail'd in power to calm my passion. Nor can they (should they pity my complaints) Once ease my life, but with the pangs of death. CICERO. "The wide world's accidents are apt to change, And tickle[348] Fortune stays not in a place; But (like the clouds) continually doth range, Or like the sun that hath the night in chase. Then as the heavens (by whom our hopes are guided) Do coast the earth with an eternal course, We must not think a misery betided Will never cease, but still grow worse and worse. When icy winter's pass'd, then comes the spring, Whom summer's pride with sultry heat pursues; To whom mild autumn does earth's treasure bring-- The sweetest season that the wise can choose. Heaven's influence was ne'er so constant yet, In good or bad as to continue it." When I was young, I saw against poor Sylla, Proud Cinna, Marius, and Carbo flesh'd So long, till they 'gan tyrannise the town, And spill'd such store of blood in every street, As there were none but dead men to be seen. Within a while, I saw how Fortune play'd, And wound those tyrants underneath her wheel, Who lost their lives and power at once by one, That (to revenge himself) did with his blade Commit more murder than Rome ever made. Yet Sylla, shaking tyranny aside, Return'd due honours to our commonwealth, Which peaceably retain'd her ancient state, Grown great without the strife of citizens; Till this ambitious tyrant's time, that toil'd To stoop the world and Rome to his desires. But flatt'ring chance, that train'd his first designs, May change her looks, and give the tyrant over, Leaving our city, where so long ago Heavens did their favours lavishly bestow. CORNELIA. 'Tis true, the heavens (at leastwise if they please) May give poor Rome her former liberty. But though they would, I know they cannot give A second life to Pompey that is slain. CICERO. Mourn not for Pompey; Pompey could not die A better death than for his country's weal. For oft he search'd amongst the fierce alarms, But (wishing) could not find so fair an end; Till, fraught with years and honour both at once, He gave his body (as a barricade) For Rome's defence, by tyrants overlaid. Bravely he died and (haply) takes it ill, That (envious) we repine at Heaven's will.