CHORUS. "These are vain thoughts or melancholy shows,[356] That wont to haunt and trace by cloister'd tombs: Which eaths[357] appear in sad and strange disguises To pensive minds, deceived with their shadows; They counterfeit the dead in voice and figure, Divining of our future miseries. For when our soul the body hath disgag'd, It seeks the common passage of the dead, Down by the fearful gates of Acheron; Where, when it is by Æacus adjudg'd, It either turneth to the Stygian lake, Or stays for ever in th' Elysian fields, And ne'er returneth to the corse interr'd, To walk by night, or make the wise afraid. None but inevitable conquering death Descends to hell, with hope to rise again; For ghosts of men are lock'd in fiery gates, Fast-guarded by a fell remorseless monster, And therefore think not it was Pompey's sprite, But some false demon that beguil'd your sight." [_Exit._ _Enter_ CICERO. CICERO. Then, O world's queen! O town that did extend Thy conquering arms beyond the ocean, And throng'dst thy conquests from the Libyan shores, Down to the Scythian swift-foot fearless porters,[358] Thou art embas'd;[359] and at this instant yield'st Thy proud neck to a miserable yoke. Rome, thou art tam'd, and th' earth, dew'd with thy blood, Doth laugh to see how thou art signioris'd. The force of heaven exceeds thy former strength: For thou, that wont'st to tame and conquer all, Art conquer'd now with an eternal fall. Now shalt thou march, thy hands fast-bound behind thee,[360] Thy head hung down, thy cheeks with tears besprent, Before the victor; while thy rebel son, With crowned front triumphing follows thee. Thy bravest captains, whose courageous hearts (Joined with the right) did reinforce our hopes, Now murder'd lie for fowl to feed upon. Petreus, Cato, and Scipio, are slain, And Juba, that amongst the Moors did reign. Now you, whom both the gods and fortune's grace Hath sav'd from danger in these furious broils, Forbear to tempt the enemy again, For fear you feel a third calamity. Cæsar is like a brightly-flaming blaze, That fiercely burns a house already fir'd; And, ceaseless launching out on every side, Consumes the more, the more you seek to quench it, Still darting sparkles, till it find a train To seize upon, and then it flames amain. The men, the ships, wherewith poor Rome affronts[361] him, All powerless give proud Cæsar's wrath free passage, Nought can resist him; all the power we raise, Turns but to our misfortune and his praise. 'Tis thou, O Rome, that nurs'd his insolence; 'Tis thou, O Rome, that gav'st him first the sword, Which murd'rer-like against thyself he draws, And violates both God and Nature's laws.