L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem

Cap. 2

I Know that such as to advise intend, Begin with Precepts, with Examples end, I must invert this order, for there's need, That diversly with divers we proceed; Reason prevailes with some, others must heare Of famous persons, that their mindes may reare, To things of splendour, therefore Ile produce Two maine examples proper for our use, And both of thine owne Sexe and of this age; The first's of one that unto sorrowes rage, Expos'd her selfe; the second's of another,

Who in a greater losse did wisely smother Her passions, not permitting them to sway, But soone reduc'd her thoughts into the way. These were no meaner pers'nages in life, Then great Augustus sister and his wife; Both lost their sonnes young and of faire renowne, Equall in hope t'have worne th'imperiall Crowne: Octavia lost Marcellus, Caesars joy, Whom as a helpe he had begun t'imploy In state affaires, he was a Youth of rare Conceit and Judgement, and past all compare, Weighing his yeeres and fortunes for his gift, Of continence and well-beseeming thrift: Patient of toyle, to no delights betray'd, Able to beare what ere his Vncle laid, (Or as I may so say without the guilt Of flattery) upon his shoulders built, Whose choife was not with partiall conceit, For sure he was a base for any weight. So deepely did the Mother apprehend This Princes death, that she would never lend An eare to any comfort, but was all Her life time such as at his Funerall; Griefe did enthrall her thoughts, which Ile not say She durst not, but refus'd to disobey; Accounting it a second deprivation, To cease from her resolved lamentation, No picture ever of her dearest Sonne Would she behold, but his remembrance shun, Envy'ng all Mothers, and was most offended With Livia, to whom she saw descended, The happinesse she lookt t'have cal'd her owne,

Her whole desire was still to be alone, Flying the light, and minding not the layes That were composed in Marcellus praise. And carelesse of all publike rites, would hate The too much glory of his Brothers state, Whereof toth end she might her selfe deprive, Shee seemed then to be interr'd alive. Nor could her Daughters bringing to her sight, Their Children daily, change her mournefull plight, Who deem'd her selfe, to their reproach bereft, Although she saw them all in safety left.