Vent. 'Tis all too true.

Ant. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, As she indeed had reason; raised a war In Italy, to call me back.

Vent. But yet You went not.

Ant. While within your arms I lay, The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp—I thank your love for't.

Vent. Well pushed: that last was home.

Cleo. Yet may I speak?

Ant. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died; (Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died.) To set the world at peace, I took Octavia, This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth, And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady, Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her. You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours. I would have fought by land, where I was stronger; You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea, Forsook me fighting; and (Oh stain to honour! Oh lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled; But fled to follow you.

Vent. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails! And, to appear magnificent in flight, Drew half our strength away.

Ant. All this you caused. And, would you multiply more ruins on me? This honest man, my best, my only friend, Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes; Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits, And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes To seize them too. If you have aught to answer, Now speak, you have free leave.

Alex. [Aside.] She stands confounded: Despair is in her eyes.

Vent. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'Tis like they shall be sold.

Cleo. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge, Already have condemned me? shall I bring The love you bore me for my advocate? That now is turned against me, that destroys me; For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten; But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty. But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you, That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes Into my faults, severe to my destruction, And watching all advantages with care, That serve to make me wretched? Speak, my lord, For I end here. Though I deserve this usage, Was it like you to give it?

Ant. O you wrong me, To think I sought this parting, or desired To accuse you more than what will clear myself, And justify this breach.

Cleo. Thus low I thank you; And, since my innocence will not offend, I shall not blush to own it.

Vent. After this, I think she'll blush at nothing.

Cleo. You seem grieved, (And therein you are kind) that Caesar first Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better: I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; For, had I first been yours, it would have saved My second choice: I never had been his, And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first, You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord: He first possessed my person; you, my love: Caesar loved me; but I loved Antony. If I endured him after, 'twas because I judged it due to the first name of men; And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant, What he would take by force.

Vent. O Syren! Syren! Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, Has she not ruined you? I still urge that, The fatal consequence.

Cleo. The consequence indeed; For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe, To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you, And kept you far from an uneasy wife,— Such Fulvia was. Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;— And, can you blame me to receive that love, Which quitted such desert, for worthless me? How often have I wished some other Caesar, Great as the first, and as the second young, Would court my love, to be refused for you!

Vent. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium.

Cleo. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not. I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear; Would I had been a man, not to have feared! For none would then have envied me your friendship, Who envy me your love.

Ant. We are both unhappy: If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. Speak; would you have me perish by my stay?

Cleo. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish— 'Tis a hard word—but stay.

Vent. See now the effects of her so boasted love! She strives to drag you down to ruin with her; But, could she 'scape without you, oh how soon Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, And never look behind!

Cleo. Then judge my love by this. [Giving ANTONY a writing. Could I have borne A life or death, a happiness or woe, From yours divided, this had given me means.

Ant. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius! I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, Young as it was, that led the way to mine, And left me but the second place in murder.— See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt, And joins all Syria to it, as a present; So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, And join her arms with his.

Cleo. And yet you leave me! You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you, Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom; That is a trifle; For I could part with life, with any thing, But only you. O let me die but with you! Is that a hard request?

Ant. Next living with you, 'Tis all that heaven can give.

Alex. He melts; we conquer. [Aside.

Cleo. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. [Takes his hand. Go; leave me, soldier; (For you're no more a lover:) leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry—she's dead: The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and strait your brow clears up, As I had never been.

Ant. Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear.

Cleo. What is't for me then, A weak forsaken woman, and a lover?— Here let me breathe my last: envy me not This minute in your arms: I'll die apace, As fast as e'er I can; and end your trouble.

Ant. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! My eyes, my soul, my all!— [Embraces her.

Vent. And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?

Ant. What is't, Ventidius? it out-weighs them all; Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now: My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, And never look behind! Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

Vent. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go?

Ant. Go! Whither? Go from all that's excellent! Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid, That I should go from her, who sets my love Above the price of kingdoms. Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

Cleo. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love, in public; and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.

Vent. O women! women! women! all the gods Have not such power of doing good to man, As you of doing harm. [Exit.

Ant. Our men are armed:— Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp: I would revenge the treachery he meant me; And long security makes conquest easy. I'm eager to return before I go; For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick On my remembrance.—How I long for night! That both the sweets of mutual love may try, And triumph once o'er Caesar ere we die. [Exeunt.

ACT III. SCENE I.

At one door, enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of Egyptians: at the other, ANTONY and Romans. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on ANTONY'S part: then answered by timbrels, &c. on CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of Egyptians. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY.

Ant. I thought how those white arms would fold me in, And strain me close, and melt me into love; So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards, And added all my strength to every blow.

Cleo. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! You've been too long away from my embraces; But, when I have you fast, and all my own, With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs, I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

Ant. My brighter Venus!

Cleo. O my greater Mars!

Ant. Thou join'st us well, my love! Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains, Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, And mountain tops pared off each other blow, To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess! Let Caesar spread his subtile nets; like Vulcan, In thy embraces I would be beheld By heaven and earth at once; And make their envy what they meant their sport. Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on, With awful state, regardless of their frowns, As their superior god. There's no satiety of love in thee: Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, And blossoms rise to fill its empty place; And I grow rich by giving.

Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart.

Alex. O, now the danger's past, your general comes! He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs; But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, As envying your success.

Ant. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: He never flattered me in any vice, But awes me with his virtue: even this minute, Methinks, he has a right of chiding me. Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence; It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest. [As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.

Vent. Emperor!

Ant. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me. [Looking back.

Vent. But this one hearing, emperor.

Ant. Let go My robe; or, by my father Hercules—

Vent. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater, I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

Ant. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, And I'll return. [Exit.

Vent. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him; I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him; His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other.

Enter ANTONY.

Ant. We can conquer, You see, without your aid. We have dislodged their troops; They look on us at distance, and, like curs 'Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward, Lie breathless on the plain.

Vent. 'Tis well; and he, Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain An easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chance Of arms—

Ant. O think not on't, Ventidius! The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; His malice is considerate in advantage. O, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, He kills, and keeps his temper.

Vent. Have you no friend In all his army, who has power to move him? Mecaenas, or Agrippa, might do much.

Ant. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests. We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish.

Vent. Fain I would find some other.

Ant. Thank thy love. Some four or five such victories as this Will save thy farther pains.

Vent. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard: I know, sir, you have conquered against odds; But still you draw supplies from one poor town, And of Egyptians: he has all the world, And, at his beck, nations come pouring in, To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again.

Ant. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search For foreign aids? to hunt my memory, And range all o'er a waste and barren place, To find a friend? the wretched have no friends. Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome, Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women: He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, From that hard rugged image melt him down, And mould him in what softer form he pleased.

Vent. Him would I see; that man, of all the world; Just such a one we want.

Ant. He loved me too; I was his soul; he lived not but in me: We were so closed within each others breasts, The rivets were not found, that joined us first. That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; We were one mass; we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was I, I he.

Vent. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.

Ant. After this, I need not tell his name;—'twas Dolabella.

Vent. He's now in Caesar's camp.

Ant. No matter where, Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly, That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight, Because I feared he loved her: he confest, He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; For 'twere impossible that two, so one, Should not have loved the same. When he departed, He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

Vent. It argues, that he loved you more than her, Else he had staid; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you.

Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now.

Vent. Perhaps He has thus long been labouring for your peace.

Ant. Would he were here!

Vent. Would you believe he loved you? I read your answer in your eyes, you would. Not to conceal it longer, he has sent A messenger from Caesar's camp, with letters.

Ant. Let him appear.

Vent. I'll bring him instantly. [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with DOLABELLA.

Ant. 'Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him. Art thou returned at last, my better half? Come, give me all myself! Let me not live, If the young bridegroom, longing for his night, Was ever half so fond.

Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busy About a noble work: she's new come home, Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er Each room, a stranger to her own, to look If all be safe.

Ant. Thou hast what's left of me; For I am now so sunk from what I was, Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, Are all dried up, or take another course: What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.

Dola. Still you are lord of all the world to me.

Ant. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. If I had any joy when thou wert absent, I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed Thee of thy part. But, oh, my Dolabella! Thou hast beheld me other than I am. Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled With sceptered slaves, who waited to salute me? With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, To worship my uprising? menial kings Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal[2].

Dola. Slaves to your fortune.

Ant. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I?

Vent. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter.

Ant. Is this friendly done?

Dola. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him; Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide: Why am I else your friend?

Ant. Take heed, young man, How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first As accessary to thy brother's death?

Dola. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, And still the blush hangs here.

Ant. To clear herself, For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt. Her galley down the silver Cydnos rowed, The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

Dola. No more: I would not hear it.

Ant. O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds, That played about her face: but if she smiled, A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more: For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear,—Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death?

Dola. And should my weakness be a plea for yours? Mine was an age when love might be excused, When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth Made it a debt to nature. Yours—

Vent. Speak boldly. Yours, he would say, in your declining age, When no more heat was left but what you forced, When all the sap was needful for the trunk, When it went down, then you constrained the course, And robbed from nature, to supply desire; In you (I would not use so harsh a word) 'Tis but plain dotage.

Ant. Ha!

Dola. 'Twas urged too home.— But yet the loss was private, that I made; 'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions; I had no world to lose, no people's love.

Ant. This from a friend?

Dola. Yes, Antony, a true one; A friend so tender, that each word I speak Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. O, judge me not less kind, because I chide! To Caesar I excuse you.

Ant. O ye gods! Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar?

Dola. As to your equal.

Ant. Well, he's but my equal: While I wear this, he never shall be more.

Dola. I bring conditions from him.

Ant. Are they noble? Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him; For nature meant him for an usurer: He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.

Vent. Then, granting this, What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper To honourable terms?

Ant. It was my Dolabella, or some god.

Dola. Not I; nor yet Mecaenas, nor Agrippa: They were your enemies; and I, a friend, Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed.

Ant. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man, Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; Let me but see his face.

Vent. That task is mine, And, heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [Exit VENT.

Dola. You'll remember To whom you stand obliged?

Ant. When I forget it, Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. My queen shall thank him too.

Dola. I fear she will not.

Ant. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella! Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?

Dola. I would not see her lost.

Ant. When I forsake her, Leave me, my better stars! for she has truth Beyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her, At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me For loving her too well. Could I do so?

Dola. Yes; there's my reason.

Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading ANTONY'S two little Daughters.

Ant. Where?—Octavia there! [Starting back.

Vent. What, is she poison to you? a disease? Look on her, view her well, and those she brings: Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature No secret call, no whisper they are yours?

Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you. Your arms should open, even without your knowledge, To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings, To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out, And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

Vent. I sent for them; I brought them in, unknown. To Cleopatra's guards.

Dola. Yet, are you cold?

Octav. Thus long I have attended for my welcome; Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I?

Ant. Caesar's sister.

Octav. That's unkind. Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister, Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp: But your Octavia, your much injured wife, Though banished from your bed, driven from your house, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness, And prompts me not to seek what you should offer; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. I come to claim you as my own; to show My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking his hand.

Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it.

Dola. On my soul, And so she does: she's neither too submissive, Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life.

Octav. Begged it, my lord?

Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

Octav. Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant.

Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down And cry,—forgive me, Caesar! shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, Forgive, would choke me up, And die upon my tongue.

Dola. You shall not need it.

Ant. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,— My friend too!—to receive some vile conditions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries,—I'll tell my brother.

Octav. My hard fortune Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. But the conditions I have brought are such, You need not blush to take: I love your honour, Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, Octavia's husband was her brother's slave. Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loath; For, though my brother bargains for your love, Makes me the price and cement of your peace, I have a soul like yours; I cannot take Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. I'll tell my brother we are reconciled; He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens; No matter where. I never will complain, But only keep the barren name of wife, And rid you of the trouble.

Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! } Both scorn to be obliged. } } Dola. O, she has touched him in the tenderest part; } See how he reddens with despite and shame, } Apart. To be out-done in generosity! } } Vent. See, how he winks! how he dries up a tear, } That fain would fall! }

Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise The greatness of your soul; But cannot yield to what you have proposed: For I can ne'er be conquered but by love; And you do all for duty. You would free me, And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?

Octav. It was, my lord.

Ant. Then I must be obliged To one who loves me not; who, to herself, May call me thankless and ungrateful man:— I'll not endure it; no.

Vent. I am glad it pinches there. [Aside.

Octav. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue? That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life, And owed it to my duty, not my love. I have been injured, and my haughty soul Could brook but ill the man, who slights my bed.

Ant. Therefore you love me not.

Octav. Therefore, my lord, I should not love you.

Ant. Therefore you would leave me?

Octav. And therefore I should leave you—if I could.

Dola. Her soul's too great, after such injuries, To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. Her modesty and silence plead her cause.

Ant. O, Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra?

Vent. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia; For Cleopatra, neither. One would be ruined with you; but she first Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined, And yet she would preserve you. In every thing their merits are unequal.

Ant. O, my distracted soul!

Octav. Sweet heaven compose it!— Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you, Methinks you should accept it. Look on these; Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, As they are mine? go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; For you may speak, and he may own you too, Without a blush; and so he cannot all His children: go, I say, and pull him to me, And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms; And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: If he will shake you off, if he will dash you Against the pavement, you must bear it, children; For you are mine, and I was born to suffer. [Here the Children go to him, &c.

Vent. Was ever sight so moving?—Emperor!

Dola. Friend!

Octav. Husband!

Both Child. Father!

Ant. I am vanquished: take me, Octavia; take me, children; share me all. [Embracing them. I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, And run out much, in riot, from your stock; But all shall be amended.

Octav. O blest hour!

Dola. O happy change!

Vent. My joy stops at my tongue; But it has found two channels here for one, And bubbles out above.

Ant. [To OCTAV.] This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; Even to thy brother's camp.

Octav. All there are yours.

Enter ALEXAS hastily.

Alex. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours—

Ant. 'Tis past.—Octavia, you shall stay this night; To-morrow, Caesar and we are one. [Ex. leading OCTAV. DOL. and the Children follow.

Vent. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, Be sure to be the first; haste forward: Haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [Exit.

Alex. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, This blunt unthinking instrument of death, With plain dull virtue has out-gone my wit. Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; The luxury of others robbed my cradle, And ravished thence the promise of a man Cast out from nature, disinherited Of what her meanest children claim by kind, Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone: Had Cleopatra followed my advice, Then he had been betrayed, who now forsakes. She dies for love; but she has known its joys: Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys, Must die, because she loves?

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train.

Oh, madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes! Octavia's here.

Cleo. Peace with that raven's note. I know it too; and now am in The pangs of death.

Alex. You are no more a queen; Egypt is lost.

Cleo. What tell'st thou me of Egypt? My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!— O fatal name to Cleopatra's love! My kisses, my embraces now are hers; While I—But thou hast seen my rival; speak. Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair? Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, The gods threw by for rubbish.

Alex. She's indeed a very miracle.

Cleo. Death to my hopes, a miracle!

Alex. A miracle; [Bowing. I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, You make all wonders cease.

Cleo. I was too rash: Take this in part of recompense. But, oh, [Giving a ring. I fear thou flatterest me.

Char. She comes! she's here!

Iras. Fly, madam, Caesar's sister!

Cleo. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove, And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, Thus would I face my rival.

Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up to her. Their Trains come up on either side.

Octav. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra; Your haughty carriage—

Cleo. Shows I am a queen: Nor need I ask you, who you are.

Octav. A Roman: A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.

Cleo. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman.

Octav. He was a Roman, till he lost that name, To be a slave in Egypt; but I come To free him thence.

Cleo. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno. When he grew weary of that household-clog, He chose my easier bonds.

Octav. I wonder not Your bonds are easy; you have long been practised In that lascivious art: He's not the first, For whom you spread your snares: Let Caesar witness.

Cleo. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but gratitude I paid his love: The worst your malice can, Is but to say, the greatest of mankind Has been my slave. The next, but far above him In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, But whom his love made mine.

Octav. I would view nearer [Coming up close to her. That face, which has so long usurped my right, To find the inevitable charms, that catch Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord.

Cleo. O, you do well to search; for had you known But half these charms, you had not lost his heart.

Octav. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady, Far from a modest wife! Shame of your sex, Dost thou not blush, to own those black endearments, That make sin pleasing?

Cleo. You may blush, who want them. If bounteous nature, if indulgent heaven Have given me charms to please the bravest man, Should I not thank them? should I be ashamed, And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me; And, when I love not him, heaven change this face For one like that.

Octav. Thou lov'st him not so well.

Cleo. I love him better, and deserve him more.

Octav. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin. Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra? Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra? At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra. Who made his children orphans, and poor me A wretched widow? only Cleopatra.

Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra. If you have suffered, I have suffered more. You bear the specious title of a wife, To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world To favour it: the world condemns poor me; For I have lost my honour, lost my fame, And stained the glory of my royal house, And all to bear the branded name of mistress. There wants but life, and that too I would lose For him I love.

Octav. Be't so then; take thy wish. [Exit with her Train.

Cleo. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost for whom alone I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances, And swims before me, in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn: But now she's gone, they faint.

Alex. Mine have had leisure To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, To ruin her, who else must ruin you.

Cleo. Vain promiser! Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras. My grief has weight enough to sink you both. Conduct me to some solitary chamber, And draw the curtains round; Then leave me to myself, to take alone My fill of grief: There I till death will his unkindness weep; As harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA.

Dola. Why would you shift it from yourself, on me? Can you not tell her, you must part?

Ant. I cannot. I could pull out an eye, and bid it go, And t'other should not weep. Oh, Dolabella, How many deaths are in this word, depart! I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: One look of hers would thaw me into tears, And I should melt, till I were lost again.

Dola. Then let Ventidius; He's rough by nature.

Ant. Oh, he'll speak too harshly; He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.

Dola. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood. I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest.

Ant. Therefore,—therefore Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me; And when thou speak'st, (but let it first be long) Take off the edge from every sharper sound, And let our parting he as gently made, As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this?

Dola. What you have said, so sinks into my soul, That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.

Ant. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell. I sent her word to meet you. [Goes to the door, and comes back. I forgot; Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine: Her crown and dignity shall be preserved, If I have power with Caesar.—O, be sure To think on that.

Dola. Fear not, I will remember. [ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back.

Ant. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained; I did not this, but with extremest force: Desire her not to hate my memory, For I still cherish hers;—insist on that.

Dola. Trust me, I'll not forget it.

Ant. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again. Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? Tell her, though we shall never meet again, If I should hear she took another love, The news would break my heart.—Now I must go; For every time I have returned, I feel My soul more tender; and my next command Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.

Dola. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing; But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view: Thus I discovered, And blamed the love of ruined Antony; Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined.

Enter VENTIDIUS above.

Vent. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, And may pursue it still.

Dola. O friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; And, if I win, undone: mere madness all. And yet the occasion's fair. What injury To him, to wear the robe which he throws by?

Vent. None, none at all. This happens as I wish, To ruin her yet more with Antony.

Enter CLEOPATRA, talking with ALEXAS; CHARMION, IRAS on the other side.

Dola. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day.

Vent. If she should love him too! her eunuch there! That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil, that I may hear.

Alex. Believe me; try. [DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS; seems to talk with them. To make him jealous; jealousy is like A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it.

Cleo. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease, and makes it show, But has no power to cure.

Alex. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young, And looks as he were laid for nature's bait, To catch weak woman's eyes. He stands already more than half suspected Of loving you: the least kind word or glance, You give this youth, will kindle him with love: Then, like a burning vessel set adrift, You'll send him down amain before the wind, To fire the heart of jealous Antony.

Cleo. Can I do this? Ah, no; my love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy.

Alex. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good, Which once he feared to lose.

Cleo. I must attempt it; But oh with what regret! [Exit ALEX. She comes up to DOLABELLA.

Vent. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach.

Cleo. [To DOL.] Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment?

Char. You have been The subject of it, madam.

Cleo. How! and how?

Iras. Such praises of your beauty!

Cleo. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.

Dola. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen—had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name.

Cleo. You flatter me. But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you. I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words.

Dola. No, madam; yet he sent me—

Cleo. Well, he sent you—

Dola. Of a less pleasing errand.

Cleo. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me?

Dola. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.

Cleo. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.— Hold up my spirits. [Aside.]—Well, now your mournful matter; For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too.

Dola. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you.

Cleo. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should.

Vent. Most delicate advances! woman! woman! Dear, damned, inconstant sex!

Cleo. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is't not so?

Dola. I wish I could not answer to that question.

Cleo. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next, I'm to lose my kingdom—farewell, Egypt. Yet, is there any more?

Dola. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.

Cleo. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons.

Dola. You o'erjoy me, madam, To find your griefs so moderately borne. You've heard the worst; all are not false like him.

Cleo. No; heaven forbid they should.

Dola. Some men are constant.

Cleo. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain.

Dola. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope.

Vent. I'll swear thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider. [Exit.

Dola. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another's message was employed, Would gladly speak its own.

Cleo. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment?

Dola. He picked me out; and, as his bosom-friend, He charged me with his words.

Cleo. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, depart.

Dola. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and with contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing AEtna, In sounds scarce human,—Hence away for ever! Let her begone, the blot of my renown, And bane of all my hopes! [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down. Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce! she'll poison to the center.

Cleo. Oh, I can bear no more!

Dola. Help, help:—Oh wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done!

Char. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.

Iras. Bend, bend her forward quickly.

Char. Heaven be praised, She comes again.

Cleo. O let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being, The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence.—Unkind, unkind!

Dola. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling. That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear farewells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you, (But what can you not do, who made me false!) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal.

Cleo. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.

Dola. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend! What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!

Cleo. Could you not beg An hour's admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds; And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succour hunger, Eats his fill, before his painful march: So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return.

VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, behind.

Vent. From hence you may discover—Oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? the pretty hand in earnest?

Dola. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand. Draw it not back, 'Tis all I e'er will beg.

Vent. They turn upon us.

Octav. What quick eyes has guilt!

Vent. Seem not to have observed them, and go on.

They enter.

Dola. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius?

Vent. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.

Dola. Know you his business?

Vent. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar.

Dola. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLA. and CLEO.

Octav. Most glorious impudence!

Vent. She looked, methought, As she would say,—take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I'm better here.— Well, but what use Make we of this discovery?

Octav. Let it die.

Vent. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear: Then she's so charming Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he's endeavouring her peace.

Octav. You have prevailed:—But for a farther purpose [Walks off. I'll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be.

Vent. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me.

Enter ANTONY.

Ant. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions.

Octav. Mine, my lord, are written.

Ant. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside.

Vent. My lord?

Ant. A word in private.— When saw you Dolabella?

Vent. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him.

Ant. Speak softly.—'Twas by my command he went, To bear my last farewell.

Vent. It looked indeed [Aloud. Like your farewell.

Ant. More softly.—My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of—my farewell? He did it by my order.

Vent. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose [Aloud. You bid him do it with all gentleness, All kindness, and all—love.

Ant. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature!

Vent. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar's, as she would another's, Were a new love to come.

Ant. Thou dost belie her; [Aloud. Most basely, and maliciously belie her.

Vent. I thought not to displease you; I have done.

Octav. You seem disturbed, my lord. [Coming up.

Ant. A very trifle. Retire, my love.

Vent. It was indeed a trifle. He sent—

Ant. No more. Look how thou disobeyest me; [Angrily. Thy life shall answer it.

Octav. Then 'tis no trifle.

Vent. [To OCTAV.] 'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it, As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret.

Ant. She saw it!

Vent. Yes: She saw young Dolabella—

Ant. Young Dolabella!

Vent. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your command, Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud,—That constancy Should be rewarded.

Octav. This I saw and heard.

Ant. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend! Not Cleopatra?

Vent. Even she, my lord.

Ant. My Cleopatra?

Vent. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella's Cleopatra; Every man's Cleopatra[3].

Ant. Thou liest.

Vent. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights.

Ant. I'll think no more on't. I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.— You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra's just? She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no farther, love.

Octav. Are you concerned, That she's found false?

Ant. I should be, were it so; For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both.

Vent. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If heaven be true, she's false.

Ant. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted.

Vent. I'll bring you, then, a witness From hell, to prove her so.—Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back. For stay you must and shall.

Alex. What means my lord?

Vent. To make you do what most you hate,—speak truth. You are of Cleopatra's private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day.

Alex. My noble lord!

Vent. My most illustrious pandar, No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, But a plain home-spun truth, is what I ask: I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know, By your confession, what more past betwixt them; How near the business draws to your employment; And when the happy hour.

Ant. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst.

Octav. [Aside.] See, how he gives him courage! how he fears To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, Willing to be misled!

Alex. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty, Urged by desert and greatness of the lover, So far, divine Octavia, may my queen Stand even excused to you, for loving him, Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius, May her past actions hope a fair report.

Ant. 'Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius.

Alex. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion Stands not excused, but wholly justified. Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, To chuse where she would reign: She thought a Roman only could deserve her, And, of all Romans, only Antony; And, to be less than wife to you, disdained Their lawful passion.

Ant. 'Tis but truth.

Alex. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, Have drawn her from the due regard of honour, At last heaven opened her unwilling eyes To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia, Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. The sad effects of this improsperous war Confirmed those pious thoughts.

Vent. [Aside.] O, wheel you there? Observe him now; the man begins to mend, And talk substantial reason.—Fear not, eunuch; The emperor has given thee leave to speak.

Alex. Else had I never dared to offend his ears With what the last necessity has urged On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered.

Ant. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word!

Octav. Must I bear this? Good heaven, afford me patience. [Aside.

Vent. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half man, proceed.

Alex. Yet Dolabella Has loved her long; he, next my godlike lord, Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, Rejected, as she is, by him she loved—

Ant. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes; Then join thou too, and help to torture her! [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.

Octav. 'Tis not well, Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, To show this passion, this extreme concernment, For an abandoned, faithless prostitute.

Ant. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered: Leave me, I say.

Octav. My lord!

Ant. I bid you leave me.

Vent. Obey him, madam: best withdraw a while. And see how this will work.

Octav. Wherein have I offended you, my lord, That I am bid to leave you? Am I false, Or infamous? Am I a Cleopatra? Were I she, Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you: But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, And fawn upon my falsehood.

Ant. 'Tis too much, Too much, Octavia; I am prest with sorrows Too heavy to be borne; and you add more: I would retire, and recollect what's left Of man within, to aid me.

Octav. You would mourn, In private, for your love, who has betrayed you. You did but half return to me: your kindness Lingered behind with her. I hear, my lord, You make conditions for her, And would include her treaty. Wonderous proofs Of love to me!

Ant. Are you my friend, Ventidius? Or are you turned a Dolabella too, And let this Fury loose?

Vent. Oh, be advised, Sweet madam, and retire.

Octav. Yes, I will go; but never to return. You shall no more be haunted with this Fury. My lord, my lord, love will not always last, When urged with long unkindness and disdain: Take her again, whom you prefer to me; She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man! Let a feigned parting give her back your heart, Which a feigned love first got; for injured me, Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, My duty shall be yours. To the dear pledges of our former love, My tenderness and care shall be transferred, And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: So, take my last farewell; for I despair To have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [Exit.

Vent. I combat heaven, which blasts my best designs: My last attempt must be to win her back; But Oh, I fear in vain. [Exit.

Ant. Why was I framed with this plain honest heart, Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness. But bears its workings outward to the world? I should have kept the mighty anguish in, And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood: Octavia had believed it, and had staid. But I am made a shallow-forded stream, Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, And all my faults exposed.—See where he comes.

Enter DOLABELLA.

Who has profaned the sacred name of friend, And worn it into vileness! With how secure a brow, and specious form, He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face Was meant for honesty; but heaven mis-matched it, And furnished treason out with Nature's pomp, To make its work more easy.

Dola. O, my friend!

Ant. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message?

Dola. I did, unwillingly.

Ant. Unwillingly? Was it so hard for you to bear our parting? You should have wished it.

Dola. Why?

Ant. Because you love me. And she received my message, with as true, With as unfeigned a sorrow, as you brought it?

Dola. She loves you, even to madness.

Ant. Oh, I know it. You, Dolabella, do not better know How much she loves me. And should I Forsake this beauty? This all-perfect creature?

Dola. I could not, were she mine.

Ant. And yet you first Persuaded me: How come you altered since?

Dola. I said at first I was not fit to go: I could not bear her sighs, and see her tears, But pity must prevail: And so, perhaps, It may again with you; for I have promised, That she should take her last farewell: And, see, She comes to claim my word.

Enter CLEOPATRA.

Ant. False Dolabella!

Dola. What's false, my lord?

Ant. Why, Dolabella's false, And Cleopatra's false; both false and faithless. Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed, Till I am stung to death.

Dola. My lord, have I Deserved to be thus used?

Cleo. Can heaven prepare A newer torment? Can it find a curse Beyond our separation?

Ant. Yes, if fate Be just, much greater: Heaven should be ingenious In punishing such crimes. The rolling-stone, And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented When Jove was young, and no examples known Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods, To find an equal torture. Two, two such!— Oh there's no farther name,—two such! to me, To me, who locked my soul within your breasts, Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; When half the globe was mine, I gave it you In dowry with my heart; I had no use, No fruit of all, but you: A friend and mistress, Was what the world could give. Oh, Cleopatra! Oh Dolabella! how could you betray This tender heart, which with an infant fondness Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, Secure of injured faith?

Dola. If she has wronged you, Heaven, hell, and you, revenge it.

Ant. If she has wronged me! Thou would'st evade thy part of guilt; but swear Thou lov'st not her.

Dola. Not so as I love you.

Ant. Not so! Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her.

Dola. No more than friendship will allow.

Ant. No more? Friendship allows thee nothing: Thou art perjured— And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'dst her not; But not so much, no more. Oh, trifling hypocrite, Who darest not own to her, thou dost not love, Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it; Octavia saw it.

Cleo. They are enemies.

Ant. Alexas is not so: He, he confest it; He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself? [To DOLA. You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell, Returned, to plead her stay.

Dola. What shall I answer? If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned; But if to have repented of that love, Can wash away my crime, I have repented. Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness, Let her not suffer: She is innocent.

Cleo. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves! What means will she refuse, to keep that heart, Where all her joys are placed! 'Twas I encouraged, 'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul, To make you jealous, and by that regain you. But all in vain; I could not counterfeit: In spite of all the dams, my love broke o'er, And drowned my heart again; fate took the occasion; And thus one minute's feigning has destroyed My whole life's truth.

Ant. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood; Seen, and broke through at first.

Dola. Forgive your mistress.

Cleo. Forgive your friend.

Ant. You have convinced yourselves. You plead each other's cause: What witness have you, That you but meant to raise my jealousy?

Cleo. Ourselves, and heaven.

Ant. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship! You have no longer place in human breasts, These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight! I would not kill the man whom I have loved, And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: I do not know how long I can be tame; For, if I stay one minute more, to think How I am wronged, my justice and revenge Will cry so loud within me, that my pity Will not be heard for either.

Dola. Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice; As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection, Than punish to extent.

Ant. I can forgive A foe; but not a mistress, and a friend. Treason is there in its most horrid shape, Where trust is greatest; and the soul, resigned, Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more; Hence from my sight, for ever!

Cleo. How? for ever! I cannot go one moment from your sight, And must I go for ever? My joys, my only joys, are centered here: What place have I to go to? My own kingdom? That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans? They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, Banished for love of you; banished from you? Ay, there's the banishment! Oh hear me; hear me. With strictest justice: For I beg no favour; And if I have offended you, then kill me, But do not banish me.

Ant. I must not hear you. I have a fool within me, takes your part; But honour stops my ears.

Cleo. For pity hear me! Would you cast off a slave who followed you? Who crouched beneath your spurn?—He has no pity! See, if he gives one tear to my departure; One look, one kind farewell: Oh iron heart! Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us. If he did ever love!

Ant. No more: Alexas!

Dola. A perjured villain!

Ant. [To CLEO.] Your Alexas; yours.

Cleo. O 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, To engage you in my love by jealousy. Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak.

Ant. I have; I have.

Cleo. And if he clear me not—

Ant. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! Watches your eye, to say or to unsay, Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved.

Cleo. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord! The appearance is against me; and I go, Unjustified, for ever from your sight. How I have loved, you know; how yet I love, My only comfort is, I know myself: I love you more, even now you are unkind, Than when you loved me most; so well, so truly, I'll never strive against it; but die pleased, To think you once were mine.

Ant. Good heaven, they weep at parting. Must I weep too? that calls them innocent. I must not weep; and yet I must, to think That I must not forgive.— Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, Who made me so: Live from each other's sight: Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth, And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: View nothing common but the sun and skies. Now, all take several ways; And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; That you were false, and I could trust no more. [Exeunt severally.

ACT V. SCENE I.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS.

Char. Be juster, heaven; such virtue punished thus, Will make us think that chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, Which man is forced to draw.

Cleo. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, And had not power to keep it. O the curse Of doting on, even when I find it dotage! Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows Of promised faith!—I'll die; I will not bear it. You may hold me— [She pulls out her Dagger, and they hold her. But I can keep my breath; I can die inward, And choke this love.

Enter ALEXAS.

Iras. Help, O Alexas, help! The queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her, With all the agonies of love and rage, And strives to force its passage.

Cleo. Let me go. Art thou there, traitor!—O, O for a little breath, to vent my rage! Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him.

Alex. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. Was it for me to prop The ruins of a falling majesty? To place myself beneath the mighty flaw, Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, By its o'erwhelming weight? 'Tis too presuming For subjects to preserve that wilful power, Which courts its own destruction.

Cleo. I would reason More calmly with you. Did not you o'er-rule, And force my plain, direct, and open love, Into these crooked paths of jealousy? Now, what's the event? Octavia is removed; But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou villain, Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined: Hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!— I can no more: Thou, and my griefs, have sunk Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee.

Alex. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, If, from above, some charitable hand Pull him to safety, hazarding himself, To draw the other's weight; would he look back, And curse him for his pains? The case is yours; But one step more, and you have gained the height.

Cleo. Sunk, never more to rise.

Alex. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished. Believe me, madam, Antony is yours. His heart was never lost; but started off To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence, And listening for the sound that calls it back. Some other, any man, ('tis so advanced) May perfect this unfinished work, which I (Unhappy only to myself) have left So easy to his hand.

Cleo. Look well thou do't; else—

Alex. Else, what your silence threatens.—Antony Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret, He stands surveying our Egyptian gallies, Engaged with Caesar's fleet. Now death or conquest! If the first happen, fate acquits my promise; If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [A distant shout within.

Char. Have comfort, madam: Did you mark that shout? [Second shout nearer.

Iras. Hark! they redouble it.

Alex. 'Tis from the port. The loudness shows it near: Good news, kind heavens!

Cleo. Osiris make it so!

Enter SERAPION.

Serap. Where, where's the queen?

Alex. How frightfully the holy coward stares! As if not yet recovered of the assault, When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, His offerings, were at stake.

Serap. O horror, horror! Egypt has been; our latest hour is come: The queen of nations, from her ancient seat, Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss: Time has unrolled her glories to the last, And now closed up the volume.

Cleo. Be more plain: Say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face, Which from thy hagard eyes looks wildly out, And threatens ere thou speakest.

Serap. I came from Pharos; From viewing (spare me, and imagine it) Our land's last hope, your navy—

Cleo. Vanquished?

Serap. No; They fought not.

Cleo. Then they fled.

Serap. Nor that. I saw, With Antony, your well-appointed fleet Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet, About to leave the bankrupt prodigal, With a dissembled smile would kiss at parting, And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps On either side thrown up; the Egyptian gallies, Received like friends, past through, and fell behind The Roman rear: And now, they all come forward, And ride within the port,

Cleo. Enough, Serapion: I've heard my doom.—This needed not, you gods: When I lost Antony, your work was done; 'Tis but superfluous malice.—Where's my lord? How bears he this last blow?

Serap. His fury cannot be expressed by words: Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen Full on his foes, and aimed at Caesar's galley: With-held, he raves on you; cries,—He's betrayed. Should he now find you—

Alex. Shun him; seek your safety, Till you can clear your innocence.

Cleo. I'll stay.

Alex. You must not; haste you to your monument, While I make speed to Caesar.

Cleo. Caesar! No, I have no business with him.

Alex. I can work him To spare your life, and let this madman perish.

Cleo. Base fawning wretch! would'st thou betray him too? Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor; 'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.— Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: But haste, each moment's precious.

Serap. Retire; you must not yet see Antony. He who began this mischief, 'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: And, since he offered you his servile tongue, To gain a poor precarious life from Caesar, Let him expose that fawning eloquence, And speak to Antony.

Alex. O heavens! I dare not; I meet my certain death.

Cleo. Slave, thou deservest it,— Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him; I know him noble: when he banished me, And thought me false, he scorned to take my life; But I'll be justified, and then die with him.

Alex. O pity me, and let me follow you.

Cleo. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst, Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; While mine I prize at this. Come, good Serapion. [Exeunt CLEO. SERAP. CHAR. and IRAS.

Alex. O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! For still, in spite of thee, These two long lovers, soul and body, dread Their final separation. Let me think: What can I say, to save myself from death? No matter what becomes of Cleopatra.

Ant. Which way? where? [Within.

Vent. This leads to the monument. [Within.

Alex. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unprepared: My gift of lying's gone; And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised, Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay; Yet cannot far go hence. [Exit.

Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS.

Ant. O happy Caesar! thou hast men to lead: Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony; But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm betrayed.

Vent. Curse on this treacherous train! Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: And their young souls come tainted to the world With the first breath they draw.

Ant. The original villain sure no God created; He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile, Aped into man; with all his mother's mud Crusted about his soul.

Vent. The nation is One universal traitor; and their queen The very spirit and extract of them all.

Ant. Is there yet left A possibility of aid from valour? Is there one god unsworn to my destruction? The least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate Of such a boy as Caesar. The world's one half is yet in Antony; And from each limb of it, that's hewed away, The soul comes back to me.

Vent. There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest: if death be your design,— As I must wish it now,—these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial.

Ant. They are enough. We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes Survey each other's acts: So every death Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt, And pay thee back a soul.

Vent. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word Of chiding more. By my few hours of life, I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate, That I would not be Caesar, to outlive you. When we put off this flesh, and mount together, I shall be shown to all the etherial crowd,— Lo, this is he who died with Antony!

Ant. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, And reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the tempting, To o'erleap this gulph of fate, And leave our wandering destinies behind.

Enter ALEXAS, trembling.

Vent. See, see, that villain! See Cleopatra stampt upon that face, With all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood! How she looks out through those dissembling eyes! How he sets his countenance for deceit, And promises a lie, before he speaks! Let me dispatch him first. [Drawing.

Alex. O spare me, spare me!

Ant. Hold; he's not worth your killing.—On thy life, Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it, No syllable to justify thy queen; Save thy base tongue its office.

Alex. Sir, she is gone, Where she shall never be molested more By love, or you.

Ant. Fled to her Dolabella! Die, traitor! I revoke my promise; die! [Going to kill him.

Alex. O hold! she is not fled.

Ant. She is: my eyes Are open to her falsehood; my whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship; But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, And all his wealth cast over. Ungrateful woman! Who followed me, but as the swallow summer, Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams, Singing her flatteries to my morning wake: But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings And seeks the spring of Caesar.

Alex. Think not so: Her fortunes have, in all things, mixt with yours. Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome, How easily might she have gone to Caesar, Secure by such a bribe!

Vent. She sent it first, To be more welcome after.

Ant. 'Tis too plain; Else would she have appeared, to clear herself.

Alex. Too fatally she has: she could not bear To be accused by you; but shut herself Within her monument; looked down and sighed; While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. Some undistinguished words she inly murmured; At last, she rais'd her eyes; and, with such looks As dying Lucrece cast—

Ant. My heart forebodes—

Vent. All for the best:—Go on.

Alex. She snatched her poniard, And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell; And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith. More she was saying, but death rushed betwixt. She half pronounced your name with her last breath, And buried half within her.

Vent. Heaven be praised!

Ant. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love? And art thou dead? O those two words! their sound should be divided: Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, And hadst been true—But innocence and death! This shows not well above. Then what am I, The murderer of this truth, this innocence! Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid As can express my guilt!

Vent. Is't come to this? the gods have been too gracious; And thus you thank them for it!

Ant. [To ALEX.] Why stayest thou here? Is it for thee to spy upon my soul, And see its inward mourning? Get thee hence; Thou art not worthy to behold, what now Becomes a Roman emperor to perform.

Alex. He loves her still: His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find She's yet alive, completes the reconcilement. I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans! Fate comes too fast upon my wit, Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [Aside. Exit.

Vent. Would she had died a little sooner though! Before Octavia went, you might have treated: Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together.

Ant. I will not fight: there's no more work for war. The business of my angry hours is done.

Vent. Caesar is at your gates.

Ant. Why, let him enter; He's welcome now.

Vent. What lethargy has crept into your soul?

Ant. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire To free myself from bondage.

Vent. Do it bravely.

Ant. I will; but not by fighting. O, Ventidius! What should I fight for now? my queen is dead. I was but great for her; my power, my empire, Were but my merchandise to buy her love; And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead, Let Caesar, take the world,— An empty circle, since the jewel's gone Which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; For all the bribes of life are gone away.

Vent. Would you be taken?

Ant. Yes, I would be taken; But, as a Roman ought,—dead, my Ventidius: For I'll convey my soul from Caesar's reach, And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. We two have kept its homage in suspence, And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part. My torch is out; and the world stands before me, Like a black desert at the approach of night: I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on.

Vent. I could be grieved, But that I'll not out-live you: chuse your death; For, I have seen him in such various shapes, I care not which I take: I'm only troubled, The life I bear is worn to such a rag, 'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed, We threw it from us with a better grace; That, like two lions taken in the toils, We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that inclose us.

Ant. I have thought on it. Ventidius, you must live.

Vent. I must not, sir.

Ant. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches From the ill tongues of men?

Vent. Who shall guard mine, For living after you?

Ant. Say, I command it.

Vent. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves, And need no living witness.

Ant. Thou hast loved me, And fain I would reward thee. I must die; Kill me, and take the merit of my death, To make thee friends with Caesar.

Vent. Thank your kindness. You said I loved you; and, in recompence, You bid me turn a traitor:—Did I think You would have used me thus? that I should die With a hard thought of you?

Ant. Forgive me, Roman. Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death, My reason bears no rule upon my tongue, But lets my thoughts break all at random out. I've thought better; do not deny me twice.

Vent. By heaven I will not. Let it not be to out-live you.

Ant. Kill me first, And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself.

Vent. Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!— [Embrace. Methinks that word's too cold to be my last: Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! That's all— I will not make a business of a trifle: And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you; Pray turn your face.

Ant. I do: strike home, be sure.

Vent. Home, as my sword will reach. [Kills himself.

Ant. O thou mistak'st; That wound was none of thine: give it me back: Thou robb'st me of my death.

Vent. I do indeed; But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you, If that may plead my pardon.—And you, gods, Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend. [Dies.

Ant. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honour.—Gone so soon? Is death no more? he used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say—You're welcome at all hours, A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him; For all the learned are cowards by profession. 'Tis not worth My farther thought; for death, for aught I know, Is but to think no more. Here's to be satisfied. [Falls on his sword. I've mist my heart. O unperforming hand! Thou never could'st have erred in a worse time. My fortune jades me to the last; and death, Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait For my admittance.— [Trampling within. Some, perhaps, from Caesar: If he should find me living, and suspect That I played booty with my life! I'll mend My work, ere they can reach me. [Rises upon his knees.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS.

Cleo. Where is my lord? where is he?

Char. There he lies, And dead Ventidius by him.

Cleo. My fears were prophets; I am come too late. O that accursed Alexas! [Runs to him.

Ant. Art thou living? Or am I dead before I knew, and thou The first kind ghost that meets me?

Cleo. Help me seat him. Send quickly, send for help! [They place him in a chair.

Ant. I am answered. We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra: I'll make the most I can of life, to stay A moment more with thee.

Cleo. How is it with you?

Ant. 'Tis as with a man Removing in a hurry; all packed up, But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur: So I come back for thee.

Cleo. Too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me: Now show your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life!

Ant. It will not be, my love; I keep my soul by force. Say but, thou art not false.

Cleo. 'Tis now too late To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you. Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death: Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed Both you and me.

Ant. And Dolabella—

Cleo. Scarce esteemed before he loved; but hated now.

Ant. Enough: my life's not long enough for more. Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee; For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest, That we may part more kindly.

Cleo. I will come: Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too: Caesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee.

Ant. But grieve not, while thou stayest, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day; And heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening. Ten years love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys,—what ages have we liv'd? And now to die each others; and, so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours.

Cleo. Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love?

Ant. No, not a minute.—This one kiss—more worth Than all I leave to Caesar. [Dies.

Cleo. O, tell me so again, And take ten thousand kisses for that word. My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do any thing, that shows you live.

Iras. He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul.

Char. Remember, madam, He charged you not to grieve.

Cleo. And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong For Roman laws to break.

Iras. Will you then die?

Cleo. Why should'st thou make that question?

Iras. Caesar is most merciful.

Cleo. Let him be so To those that want his mercy: My poor lord Made no such covenant with him, to spare me When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters A secret curse on her, who ruined him! I'll none of that.

Char. Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death.

Iras. I only feared For you; but more should fear to live without you.

Cleo. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Despatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made (Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.

Iras. The aspicks, madam?

Cleo. Must I bid you twice? [Ex. CHAR. and IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure. We're now alone, in secresy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.—O welcome, welcome!

Enter CHARMION and IRAS.

Char. What must be done?

Cleo. Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him.—Only thou Could'st triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph.

Char. To what end These ensigns of your pomp and royalty?

Cleo. Dull, that thou art! why,'tis to meet my love; As when I saw him first, on Cydnos' bank, All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, I'll find him once again; my second spousals Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both, And dress the bride of Antony.

Char. 'Tis done.

Cleo. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place; For I must conquer Caesar too, like him, And win my share of the world.—Hail, you dear relicks Of my immortal love! O let no impious hand remove you hence; But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give His death that peace, which it denied his life.— Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit the aspick lies.

Cleo. Welcome, thou kind deceiver! [Putting aside the leaves. Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but sleep.

Serap. The queen, where is she? [Within. The town is yielded, Caesar's at the gates.

Cleo. He comes too late to invade the rights of death. Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm, and draws it back. Coward flesh, Would'st thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him, But bring myself, my soul, to Antony. [Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody. Take hence; the work is done.

Serap. Break ope the door, [Within. And guard the traitor well.

Char. The next is ours.

Iras. Now, Charmion, to be worthy Of our great queen and mistress. [They apply the aspicks.

Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins: I go with such a will to find my lord, That we shall quickly meet. A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head: My eye-lids fall, And my dear love is vanished in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast!—Caesar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies. [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.

Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians.

Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havock death has made!

Serap. 'Twas what I feared.— Charmion, is this well done?

Char. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last Of her great race: I follow her. [Sinks down; dies.

Alex. 'Tis true, She has done well: Much better thus to die, Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

Serap. See, how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived. And went to charm him in another Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, To grace the imperial triumph.—Sleep, blest pair, Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers lived so great, or died so well. [Exeunt.

Footnotes: 1. There was anciently some foolish idea about a wren soaring on an eagle's back. Colley Cibber, as Dr Johnson observed, converted the wren into a linnet:

Perched on the eagle's towering wing, The lowly linnet loves to sing.

2. Approach there—Ay, you kite!— —Now, gods and devils! Authority melts from me: of late, when I cried ho! Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth And cry, your will.—Have you no ears? I am Antony yet.—

The same idea, which bursts from Shakespeare's Antony in a transport of passion, is used by Dryden's hero. The one is goaded by the painful feeling of lost power; to the other, absorbed in his sentimental distresses, it only occurs as a subject of melancholy, but not of agitating reflection.

3. Imitated, or rather copied, from Shakespeare.

Don John. I came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortened (for she hath been too long a talking of) the lady is disloyal.

Claudia. Who? Hero?

Don John. Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.



EPILOGUE.

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left—and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit. We wonder how the devil this difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears a-foot; For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, If pink and purple best become his face. For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes. He does his best; and if he cannot please, Would quietly sue out his writ of ease. Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. Let Caesar's power the men's ambition move, But grace you him, who lost the world for love! Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

* * * * *

END OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.

Edinburgh:

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