The boat made fast, Pompeius treading the lone waste of sand Drew near; whom when Cornelia's maidens saw, They stayed their weeping, yet with sighs subdued, Reproached the fates; and tried in vain to raise Their mistress' form, till Magnus to his breast Drew her with cherishing arms; and at the touch Of soothing hands the life-blood to her veins Returned once more, and she could bear to look Upon his features.

He forbad despair, Chiding her grief.

"Not at the earliest blow By Fortune dealt, inheritress of fame Bequeathed by noble fathers, should thy strength Thus fail and yield: renown shall yet be thine, To last through ages; not of laws decreed Nor conquests won; a gentler path to thee As to thy sex, is given; thy husband's woe.
Let thine affection struggle with the fates, And in his misery love thy lord the more.
I bring thee greater glory, for that gone Is all the pomp of power and all the crowd Of faithful senators and suppliant kings; Now first Pompeius for himself alone Tis thine to love.

Curb this unbounded grief, While yet I breathe, unseemly.

O'er my tomb Weep out thy full, the final pledge of faith.
Thou hast no loss, nor has the war destroyed Aught save my fortune.