MARIUS. Thou, that hast walk'd with troops of flocking friends, Now wand'rest 'midst the labyrinth of woes; Thy best repast with many sighing ends, And none but fortune all these mischiefs knows. Like to these stretching mountains, clad with snow, No sunshine of content my thoughts approacheth: High spire their tops, my hopes no height do know, But mount so high as time their tract reproacheth. They find their spring, where winter wrongs my mind, They weep their brooks, I waste my cheeks with tears. O foolish fate, too froward and unkind, Mountains have peace, where mournful be my years. Yet high as they my thoughts some hopes would borrow; But when I count the evening end with sorrow. Death in Minturnum threaten'd Marius' head, Hunger in these Numidian mountains dwells: Thus with prevention having mischief fled, Old Marius finds a world of many hells, Such as poor simple wits have oft repin'd; But I will quell, by virtues of the mind, Long years misspent in many luckless chances, Thoughts full of wrath, yet little worth succeeding, These are the means for those whom fate advances: But I, whose wounds are fresh, my heart still bleeding, Live to entreat this blessed boon from fate, That I might die with grief to live in state. Six hundred suns with solitary walks I still have sought for to delude my pain, And friendly echo, answering to my talks, Rebounds the accent of my ruth again: She, courteous nymph, the woful Roman pleaseth, Else no consorts but beasts my pains appeaseth. Each day she answers in yon neighbouring mountain, I do expect, reporting of my sorrow, Whilst lifting up her locks from out the fountain, She answereth to my questions even and morrow: Whose sweet rebounds, my sorrow to remove, To please my thoughts I mean for to approve. Sweet nymph, draw near, thou kind and gentle echo, [_Echo_[129]. _I_. What help to ease my weary pains have I? What comfort in distress to calm my griefs? _Griefs_. Sweet nymph, these griefs are grown, before I thought so. _I thought so_. Thus Marius lives disdain'd of all the gods. _Gods_. With deep despair late overtaken wholly. _O lie_. And will the heavens be never well appeased? _Appeased_. What mean have they left me to cure my smart? _Art_. Nought better fits old Marius' mind than war. _Then war_[130]. Then full of hope, say, Echo, shall I go? _Go_. Is any better fortune then at hand? _At hand_. Then farewell, Echo, gentle nymph, farewell. _Farewell_. O pleasing folly to a pensive man!