Thoughts of my Country, and returne to _Rome_,
Som-what distempered my busy head.
_Caes._ Let no such thoughts distemper now thy minde,
This day to _Bacchus_ will wee consecrate, 940
And in deepe goblets of the purest wine,
Drinke healths vnto our seuerall friends at home.
_Antho._ If of my Country or of _Rome_ I thought,
Twas that I neuer ment for to come there,
But spend my life in this sweete paradise. _Exeunt._

ACT. 2. SCE. 4. {SN _Act II sc. iv_}

_Enter Cicero, Brutus, Casca, Camber, Trebonius._

_Cice._ Most prudent heads, that with your councels wise,
The pillars of the mighty _Rome_ sustaine,
You see how ciuill broyles haue torne our state: 950
And priuate strife hath wrought a publique wo,
_Thessalia_ boasts that she hath seene our fall,
And _Rome_ that whilom wont to Tiranize,
And in the necks of all the world hath rang'd,
Loosing her rule, to serue is now constraynd,
_Pompey_ the hope and stay of Common-weale,
VVhose vertues promis'd _Rome_ security
Now flies distrest, disconsolate, forlorne,
Reproch of Fortune, and the victors scorne.
_Caes._ VVhat now is left for wretched _Rome_ to hope, 960
But in laments and bitter future woe,
To wey the downefall of her former pride:
Againe _Porsenna_ brings in _Tarquins_ names,
And _Rome_ againe doth smoke with furious flames.
In _Pompeys_ fall wee all are ouerthrowne,
And subiect made to conqueror Tirany.
_Bru._ Most Noble _Cicero_ and you _Romaine_ Peeres,
Pardon the author of vnhappy newes,
And then prepare to heare my tragick tale.
VVith that same looke, that great _Atrides_ stood, 970
At cruell alter staind with Daughters blood,
When _Pompey_ fled pursuing _Caesars_ sword,
And thought to shun his following desteny.
And then began to thinke on many a friend,
And many a one recalled hee to minde:
Who in his Fortunes pride did leaue their liues,
And vowed seruice at his princely feete,
From out the rest, the yong _Egiptian_ King,
VVhose Father of an Exild banish'd man
Hee seated had in throne of Maiesty, 980
Him chose, to whome he did commit his life,
(But O, who doth remember good-turnes past)
The Rising Sunne, not Setting, doth men please,
To ill committed was