ambitious fire,
As nought could quench it but thy Countries bloud.
_Dolo._ But this no while thy valour doth destayne,
Which found'st vnsought for cause of ciuill broyles,
And fatall fuell which this fire enflamd. 320
_Anto._ Let then his death set period to this strife,
Which was begun by his ambitious life.
_Caes._ The flying _Pompey_ to _Larissa_ hastes,
And by _Thessalian_ Temple shapes his course:
Where faire _Peneus_ tumbles vp his waues,
Him weele pursue as fast as he vs flies,
Nor he though garded with _Numidian_ horse,
Nor ayded with the vnresisted powre:
The _Meroe_, or seauen mouth'd Nile can yeeld:
No not all _Affrick_ arm'd in his defence 330
Shall serue to shrowd him from my fatall sworde. _Exit._

ACT. I. SC. 4. {SN _Act I sc. ii_}

_Enter Cato._

_Ca._ O where is banish'd liberty exil'd,
To _Affrick_ deserts or to _Scythia_ rockes,
Or whereas siluer streaming _Tanais_ is?
Happy is _India_ and _Arabia_ blest,
And all the bordering regions vpon _Nile_
That neuer knew the name of Liberty,
But we that boast of _Brutes_ and _Colatins_, 340
And glory we expeld proud _Tarquins_ name,
Do greeue to loose, that we so long haue held.
Why reckon we our yeares by Consuls names:
And so long ruld in freedon, now to serue?
They lie that say in Heauen there is a powre
That for to wracke the sinnes of guilty men,
Holds in his hand a fierce three-forked dart.
Why would he throw them downe on _Oeta_ mount
Or wound the vnderringing _Rhodope_,
And not rayne showers of his dead-doing dartes, 350
Furor in flame, and Sulphures smothering heate
Vpon the wicked and accurs'd armes
That cruell _Romains_ 'gainst their Country beare.
_Rome_ ware thy fall: those prodigies foretould,
When angry heauens did powre downe showers of blood
And fatall _Comets_ in the heauens did blase,
And all the Statues in the Temple blast,
Did weepe the losse of _Romaine_ liberty.
Then if the Gods haue destined thine end,
Yet as a Mother hauing lost her Sonne, 360
_Cato_ shall waite vpon thy tragick hearse,
And neuer leaue thy cold and bloodles corse.
Ile tune a sad and dol-full funerall song,
Still crying on lost liberties sweete name,