ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following Address to the Publick has been induced by due reverence for the great names of Shakspeare and Dryden; and by a respect for Those (among a multitude of their living Admirers) who, glowing with that enthusiasm which such preeminent Poets only can inspire, look upon any change of their text as a profanation:—a profanation, which may, possibly, be the only mode of continuing some of their Plays before a modern Audience. For the arrangements ventured in the following Tragedy, various precedents might be quoted; frequent liberties having been taken with old Dramatists; and taken successfully, (at least upon the boards of a Theatre) with little previous explanation, or with no explanation whatever: but, in the present instance, it is particularly wish'd that an humble endeavour may not be misconstrued into an arrogant attempt.

Doctor Johnson observes, on Shakspeare's Antony and Cleopatra, that “the events, of which the principal are described according to History, are produced without any art of connection, or care of disposition;” which comment, according to the strict critical code, conveys no slight censure, though mildly express'd;—but he also tells us, that, “the Play keeps curiosity always busy, and the passions always interested;” and that “the power of delighting is derived principally from the frequent changes of the Scene:’”—now, when we consider what those changes are, he will be fouhd to praise, in one paragraph, that which he appears to condemn, in another.

But Johnson cannot be fairly convicted of incongruity in the above remarks: for, it is to be recollected, that they claim a bearing upon his general tenets; and that, in his admirable Preface to Shakspeare's Plays, he has defended the Poet's departure from the Unities. The authority of his opinion produces a powerful Ally to generous Taste, when inclined to rebel against scholastick Prescription; still, although “deliberately given,” it makes him, he says, “frighted at his own temerity.”

To behold the gigantic Doctor in a fright at his contemporary brethren, the majority of whom were pigmies to him in intellect, excites a smile! and may be cited, among repeated, and often, salutary instances, of the men of Method keeping the man of Genius in awe. He certainly labour'd to be beneficial; and to assuage the fury of the Aristotelian fire, raging in the bosoms of diminutive Literati; but he felt that he might be pouring oil; and encreasing the flames he wish'd to subdue.—It is, by no means, intended to insinuate that, when Johnson broached his opinions, there were not individuals of great talent, and erudition, alive, to oppose them; as, doubtless, there are now; but he, probably, dreaded an uproar of the dogmatical million, rather than the discussion of liberal men of letters, who were, comparatively few. Perhaps candour may open a walk between Aristotle and Johnson: the former may have exacted a path too narrow, and the latter have permitted a road too wide.

Be this as it may, Shakspeare's disregard of the Unities are traditionally received; and, to reduce his historical Plays to critical rules, is impossible: they grasp an age in a span; they comprise the events of years in a minute:—we may carefully resciad redundant scenes, and tenderly prune the exuberance of his dialogue, and they may flourish the better on a modern Stage;—to strike at the root of his general construction, is to eradicate the venerable Bard from the soil of our Theatre.

But the magick of his Muse is so powerful, he transports us from place to place, out-running Time with so sweet a velocity,

that we acknowledge much delight would be lost if we did not submit to the violence of the motion. We feel like men indulging in morning slumbers, sensible of visionary impossibilities, but unwilling to rouse our minds from the illusion: and when the enchantment is broken, by the termination of the Drama, a polish'd Auditor may exclaim, with the Poet's rude Caliban,

Horace has described him by anticipation:

Dryden in the Preface to his Play of “All for Love,” vaunts that he has observed the Unities of Time, Place, and Action, with more exactness than, perhaps, the English Theatre requires: —thus, while he volunteers a difficulty, he seems proud of shackling himself with fetters he holds in contempt, to shew how gracefully he can rattle them: In his boasted observance, however, of the Unities, he has not scrupled to falsify History; which he informs us he has done “by the privilege of a Poet.”

But the two Authors have told the same story in a different way; and, while Shakspeare has taken the broadest range, Dryden has concentrated his plan:—to mingle, therefore, their Dramas has presented no little difficulty;—to blend the regular Play of Dryden with the wild Tragedy of Shakspeare, creates a danger of entangling a chain of incidents.

The obvious question, then, is,—Why make such an attempt? to which the following answers are respectfully given:—

Shakspeare's Play has been, already, altered, abridged, &c. &c. —but it has stood the test of modern times less than many of our great Bard's revived Dramas, which are, now, kept before the Spectators, from year to year:—Something has been

wanting to render it what is termed a Stock Play:—Dryden's Play has been long upon the shelf; nor does it appear suited to the present taste, without much departure from the original; but there is much to be admired in both the Plays.

Under these circumstances, an amalgamation of wonderful poetical powers has been considered the best method to be adopted; and it is hoped, that the present arrangement will be found sometimes to have softened the violations of those Unities in Shakspeare, which it cannot easily encrease.

In respect to pruning for representation, it may be allow'd, that

A few lines of interpolation, here and there, will be observed; inserted merely for the purpose of connecting those beauties (which have long been dormant) of Two of England's greatest Poets.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[Attendant], [Messenger], [Ambassador], [Aegyptian], [Officer], [Soldier], [Guard 1], [Guard 2], [Guards]

Attendants, Messengers, Officers, and Soldiers.

Octavius Cæsar	Triumvir	Mr. Abbot,
Marcus Antonius [Mark Antony]	Triumvir	Mr. Young,
Æmilius Lepidus [Lepidus]	Triumvir	Mr. Barrymore,
Dolabella	Friend of Cæsar	Mr. Hamerton,
Mæcenas [Maecenas]	Friend of Cæsar	Mr. Crumpton,
Agrippa	Friend of Cæsar	Mr. Creswell,
Proculeius	Friend of Cæsar	Mr. Jefferies,
Thyreus	Friend of Cæsar	Mr. Murray,
Enobarbus	Friend of Antony	Mr. Egerton,
Canidius	Friend of Antony	Mr. Treby,
Ventidius	Friend of Antony	Mr. Terry,
Philo	Friend of Antony	Mr. Brook,
Alexas	Officer of Cleopatra's House	Mr. Chapman,
Diomedes	Officer of Cleopatra's House	Mr. Menage,
Mardion [Mardian], an Eunuch	Officer of Clepatra's House.
Cleopatra, Queens of Ægypt	Mrs. Faucit,
Charmion [Charmian]	Her Woman.	Miss Cooke,
Iras	Her Woman.	Mrs. Watts,
Octavia, Cæsar's Sister	Mrs. M'Gibbon.

SCENE—Ægypt, and dispersed in several parts of the Roman Empire.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. ACT I. Scene 1 SCENE—Alexandria. The Interior of Cleopatra's Palace. Enter Canidius, and Philo.

Can.
NAY, but this dotage of our General
O'erflows the measure; those, his goodly eyes,
That o'er the files and musters of the war,
Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn
The office, and devotion, of their view
Upon a tawny front: his captain's heart,
Which, in the scuffles of great fights, hath burst
The buckles of his breast, disowns all temper,
And is become the bellows and the fan,
To cool a gipsy's passions. Look, they come. (Flourish) Enter Antony, Cleopatra, and their Train. Eunuchs fanning her.
Take but good note, and you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transform'd
Into a wanton's fool. Behold!

Cle.
If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

Ant.
There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.

Cle.
I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd.

Ant.
Then must thou needs find out new Heaven, new earth. Enter an Attendant.

Attend.
News, my good lord, from Rome.

Ant.
Grates me:—The sum?

Cle.
Nay, hear them, Antony.
Fulvia, perchance, is angry; or, who knows
If the scarce-bearded Cæsar have not sent
His powerful mandate to you—“do this, or this;
Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that;
Perform't, or else we damn thee.”

Ant.
How, my love!

Cle.
Perchance,—nay, and most like,—
You must not stay here longer; your dismission
Is come from Cæsar; therefore, hear it, Antony.—
Where's Fulvia's process? Cæsar's, I would say; both?
Call in the messengers.—As I am Ægypt's queen,
Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine
Is Cæsar's homager: so thy cheek pays shame
When shrill-tongu'd Fulvia scolds. The messengers! (Calling.)

Ant.
Let Rome in Tyber melt, and the wide arch
Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space:
Kingdoms are clay; the nobleness of life
Is, to do thus. (kisses her hand.)

Cle.
Excellent falsehood!
Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
I seem the fool I am not; Antony
Will be himself.

Ant.
Now, for the love of Love, and his soft hours,

Let's not confound the time with conference harsh;
There's not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?

Cle.
Hear the ambassadors.

Ant
Fy, wrangling queen!
Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself in thee, fair and admir'd!
No messenger but thine. Come, come, my queen!—
Speak not to us. (To the Attendant.) [Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, and Train.

Philo.
Triumphant lady!—But, since messengers
From many his contriving friends, in Rome,
Petition his return, now Antony
Must leave her utterly.

Can.
Never; he will not.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety: Other women cloy
The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry,
Where most she satisfies.

Philo.
I am full sorry that he so approves
The common liar, who, we oft have heard,
Thus speaks of him at Rome. But I will hope
Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy! [Exeunt, severally. Scene 2 SCENE—Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra's Palace. Enter Antony, with a Messenger; Attendants following.

Mess.
Fulvia, thy wife, first came into the field.

Ant.
Against my brother Lucius?

Mess.
Ay:
But soon that war had end; and the time's state
Made friends of them, joining their force 'gainst Cæsar;

Whose better issue in the war from Italy,
Upon the first encounter, drave them.

Ant.
Well,
What worst?

Mess.
The nature of bad news infects the teller.

Ant.
When it concerns the fool, or coward. On;
Things that are past are done, with me. 'Tis thus;
Who tells me true, tho' in his tale lie death,
I hear him, as he flatter'd.

Mess.
Labienus
Hath, with his Parthian force, extended Asia.
His conquering banner from Euphrates shook,
From Syria to Lydia, and Ionia;
Whilst—

Ant.
Antony, thou would'st say,—

Mess.
O, my lord!—

Ant.
Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue;
Name Cleopatra as she's call'd in Rome:
Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase, and taunt my faults,
With such full licence as both truth, and malice,
Have power to utter.
From Sicyon how the news? Speak there.

Mess.
The man from Sicyon.—Is there such a one?

Attend.
He stays upon your will. (Looking out.)

Ant.
Let him appear:—And fare thee well awhile. (To Messenger.)

Mess.
At your noble pleasure. [Exit.

Ant.
These strong Æyptian fetters I must break.
Or lose myself in dotage. Enter a Second Messenger.
What are you?

Mes.
Fulvia, thy wife, is dead.

Ant.
Where died she?

Mes.
In Sicyon:

Her length of sickness, with what else, more serious,
Importeth thee to know, this tells. (Gives a letter.)

Ant.
Forbear me.— [Exit Messenger.
There's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:
What our contempts do often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again: She's good, being lost:
The hand could pluck her back, that forc'd her on.
I must from this enchanting queen break off;
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
My idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus! Enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

What's your pleasue, Sir?

Ant.

I must hence; hence with haste.

Eno.

Why, then, we kill all our women. If they suffer our departure, death's the word.

Ant.

I must be gone.

Eno

Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly. I have seen her die twenty times, upon a far poorer occasion.

Ant.

She is cunning, past man's thought. Fulvia is dead.

Eno.

Fulvia!

Ant.

Dead.

Eno.

Why, Sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then were the case to be lamented:—the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

Ant.
No more light answers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose: I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the queen.
Say, our pleasure,
To such whose place is under us, requires
Our quick removal hence.

Eno.
I shall do't. [Exeunt.

Scene 3 SCENE—A Room in Cleopatra's Palace. Cleopatra, Charmion, Iras, and Alexas, discover'd.

Cle.
Where is he?

Char.
I did not see him since.

Cle. (To Alexas.)
See where he is, who's with him, what he does.—
I did not send you. If you find him sad,
Say, I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return. [Exit Alexas.

Char.
Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him

Cle
What should I do I do not?

Char.
In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing.

Cle.
Thou teachest like a fool;—the way to lose him

Char.
Tempt him not so too far. Enter Antony.
But here comes Antony.

Cle.
I am sick, and sullen. (to Charmion aside.)

Ant
I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose.

Cle.
Help me away, dear Charmion, I shall fall;
It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature
Will not sustain it.

Ant.
Now, my dearest queen,—

Cle.
Pray you, stand farther from me.

Ant.
What's the matter?

Cle.
I know, by that same eye, there's some good news;
What says the marry'd woman? You may go:
Would she had never giv'n you leave to come!
Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here,
I have no power upon you; her's you are.

Ant.
The gods best know,—

Cle.
O, never was there queen
So mightily betray'd! Yet, at the first,
I saw the treason planted.

Ant.
Cleopatra,—

Cle.
Why should I think you can be mine, and true,
Though you, in swearing, shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
To be entangl'd with those mouth-made vows,
Which break themselves in swearing!

Ant
Most sweet queen!

Cle.
Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going;
But, bid farewel, and go; when you su'd staying,
Then was the time for words. No going then;
Eternity was in our lips and eyes;
Bliss in our brows, and none our parts so poor,
But was a race of Heaven.

Ant.
Hear me, queen;
The strong necessity of time commands
Our services awhile; but my full heart
Remains in use with you. Our Italy
Shines o'er with civil swords; my more particular,
And that which most with you should safe my going,
Is Fulvia's death.

Cle.
Her death!—Can Fulvia die?

Ant.
She's dead, my queen.

Cle.
O, most false love!
Where be the sacred vials thou should'st fill

With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
In Fulvia's death, how mine shall be receiv'd.

Ant.
Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd to know
The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,
As you shall give advice. Now, by the fire
That quickens Nilus' slime, I go out hence
Thy soldier, servant; making peace, or war,
As thou affect'st.

Cle.
Cut my lace, Charmion; come;
But let it be; I am quickly ill, and well,
So Antony loves.

Ant.
My precious queen, forbear;
And give true evidence to his love, which stands
An honourable trial.

Cle
So was Fulvia told:—
I pr'ythee, turn aside, and weep for her,
Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears
Belong to Ægypt. Good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling: and let it look
Like perfect honour.

Ant.
You'll heat my blood; no more.

Cle.
You can do better yet; but this is meetly.

Ant.
Now, by my sword,—

Cle.
And target,—still he mends;
But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmion,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.

Ant.
I'll leave you, lady.

Cle.
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part; but that's not it;
Sir, you and I have lov'd,—but there's not it;
That you know well. Something it is, I would,—
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.

Ant.
But that your majesty
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
For idleness itself.

Cle.
Your honour calls you hence:
Therefore be deaf to my unpity'd folly,
And all the gods go with you! On your sword
Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success
Be strew'd before your feet!

Ant.
Let us go:—Come on;
Our separation so abides, and flies,
That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. [Exeunt severally. Scene 4 SCENE—Rome. A Room in Cæsar's Palace. Enter Octavius Cæsar, Lepidus, and their Trains.

Cæs.
You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
It is not Cæsar's natural vice to hate
Our great competitor. From Alexandria
This is the news; He fishes, drinks, and wastes
The lamps of night in revel; is not more man-like
Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy
More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
Vouchaf'd to think he had partners. You shall find there
A man, who is the abstract of all faults,
That all men follow.

Lep.
I must not think there are
Evils enough to darken all his goodness.
His faults, in him, seem as hereditary
Rather than purchased; what he cannot change,
Than what he chooses.

Cæs.
You are too indulgent. Grant it not amiss
To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
And keep the turn of tipling with a slave;
To reel the streets at noon; say this becomes him;
(As his composure must be rare, indeed,

Whom these things cannot blemish;) Yet is Antony
No way excused; for to confound such time,
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As our state, with his own,—'tis to be chid
As we rate boys, who, ripening into knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
And so rebel to judgment. Enter a Messenger.

Lep.
Here's more news.

Mess.
Pompey is strong at sea;
And, it appears, he is belov'd of those
That only have fear'd Cæsar: to the ports
The discontents repair, and men's opinions
Give him much wrong'd. Enter another Messenger.

Mess.
Cæsar, I bring thee word,
Menacrates and Menas, famous pirates,
Make the sea serve them:
No vessel can peep forth, but 'tis as soon
Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more
Than could his war resisted.

Cæs.
Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassels: when thou once
From Mutina wert beaten, at thy heel
Did Famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more
Than savages could suffer; nor disdain'd
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge;
Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,
The bark of trees thou browsed'st—and all this
Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek
So much as lank'd not.

Lep.
It is pity of him.

Cæs.
Let his shames quickly
Drive him to Rome. Time is it that we twain
Did shew ourselves i'the field; and, to that end,
Assemble we immediate council: Pompey
Thrives in our idleness.

Lep.
To-morrow, Cæsar,
I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly,
Both what by sea and land I can be able,
To front this present time.

Cæs.
Till which encounter
It is my business too. Farewel.

Lep.
Farewel, my Lord. What you shall know, meantime,
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, Sir,
To let me be partaker.

Cæs.
Doubt not, Sir;
I knew it for my bond. [Exeunt. Scene 5 SCENE.—Alexandria.—A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, supporting herself on Iras; Charmion and Mardion following.

Cle.
Charmion,—

Char.
Madam.

Cle.
That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away!

Char.
You think of him
Too much.

Cle.
O, Charmion!
Where think'st thou he is now?
Or does he walk, or is he on his horse?
O, happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demi-Atlas of the earth, the arm,
And burgonet of man.—He's speaking now,
Or murmuring,—‘Where's my serpent of old Nile?’

Enter Alexas.

Alex.
Sovereign of Ægypt, hail!

Cle.
How much art thou unlike Mark Antony!
Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath
With its tinct gilded thee.
What tidings of my brave Mark Antony?

Alex.
Last thing he did, dear queen,
He kiss'd, the last of many double kisses,
This orient pearl;—his speech sticks in my heart.

Cle.
Mine ear must pluck it thence.

Alex.
Good friend, quoth he,
Say—the firm Roman to great Ægypt sends
This—[giving a pearl.]
To mend the petty present, I will piece
Her opulent throne with kingdoms: All the East,
Say thou, shall call her mistress.—So he nodded,
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
That neigh'd so high, that what I would have spoken
Was dumb'd by him.

Cle.
What, was he sad, or merry?

Alex.
Like to the time o' the year, between the extremes
Of hot and cold; he was nor sad, nor merry.

Cle.
O, well directed disposition! note him,
Note him, good Charmion, 'tis the man; but note him:
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
Which seeem'd to tell them his remembrance lay
In Ægypt, with his joy; but between both.
O, heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad, or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes,
So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?

Alex.
Ay, Madam, twenty several messengers.
Why do you send so thick?

Cle.
Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony,
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmion;—
He shall have every day a several greeting,
Or I'll unpeople Ægypt. [Exeunt. ACT II. Scene 1 SCENE.—A Room in Lepidus' House, at Rome, Enter Lepidus, and Enobarbus.

Lep.
GOOD Enobarbus, 'tis a worthy deed,
And shall become you well, to entreat your Captain
To soft, and gentle speech.

Eno.
I shall entreat him
To answer like himself; if Cæsar move him,
Let Antony look over Cæsar's head,
And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,
Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard,
I would not shave't to-day.

Lep.
'Tis not a time
For private stomaching.

Eno.
Every time
Serves for the matter that is then born in't.

Lep.
But small to greater matters must give way.

Eno.
Not if the small come first.

Lep.
Your speech is passion:
But, 'pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes
The noble Antony.

Enter Antony, and Canidius.

Eno.
And yonder Cæsar. Enter Cæsar, Agrippa, and Mæcenas.

Ant.
If we compose well here, to Parthia:
Hark you, Canidius! [Speaking aside to Canidius.

Cæs.
I do not know, Mæcenas; ask Agrippa.
Welcome to Rome.

Ant.
Thank you.

Cæs.
Sit.

Ant.
Sit, Sir!

Cæs.
Nay, then—

Lep.
Noble friends,
That which conven'd us, was most great; and let not
A leaner action rend us. What's amiss,
May it be gently heard: When we debate
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit
Murther in healing wounds: Then, noble partners,
(The rather, for I earnestly beseech)
Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
Nor curstness grow to the matter.

Ant.
'Tis spoken well:
Were we before our armies, and to fight,
I should do thus.— [They sit—Lepidus in the middle—Antony, Enobarbus, and Canidius on one side—Cæsar, Mæcenas and Agrippa on the other.] (To Cæsar.)
I learn you take things ill, which are not so;
Or being, concern you not.

Cæs.
I must be laugh'd at,
If, or for nothing, or a little, I
Should say myself offended; and with you
Chiefly i'the world; more laugh'd at, that I should

Once name you derogately, when, to sound your name,
It not concern'd me.

Ant.
My being in Ægypt, Cæsar,
What was't to you?

Cæs.
No more than my residing here at Rome
Might be to you in Ægypt: Yet, if you there
Did practise on my state, your being in Ægypt
Might be my question.

Ant.
How intend you, practis'd?

Cæs
You may be pleas'd to catch at mine intent,
By what did here befall: Your wife, and brother,
Made wars upon me; and their contestation
Was theme for you; You were the word of war.

Ant.
You do mistake your business: my brother never
Did urge me in this act;—of this my letters
Before did satisfy you. If you'll patch a quarrel,
(As matter whole you have not to make it with)
It must not be with this.

Cæs.
You praise yourself,
By laying defects of judgment to me; but
You patch'd up your excuses.

Ant.
Not so, not so:
I know you could not lack, I'm certain on't,
Very necessity of this thought that I,
Your partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought,
Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars,
Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another:
The third o'the world is yours; which, with a snaffle,
You may pace easy, but not such a wise.

Cæs.
I wrote to you,
When, rioting in Alexandria; you
Did pocket up my letters; and, with taunts,
Did gibe my missive out of audience.

Ant.
Sir,
He fell upon me, 'ere admitted; then
Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want
Of what I was i'the morning; but, next day,
I told him of myself; which was as much
As to have ask'd him pardon: Let this fellow
Be nothing of our strife; if we contend,
Out of our question wipe him.

Cæs.
You have broken
The article of your oath; which you shall never
Have tongue to charge me with.

Lep.
Soft, Cæsar.

Ant.
No,
Lepidus, let him speak:
The honour is sacred which he talks on now,
Supposing that I lack'd it; but, on, Cæsar;—
The article of my oath,—

Cæs.
To lend me arms, and aid, when I requir'd them;
The which you both refus'd.

Ant.
Neglected, rather;
And then, when poison'd hours had bound me up
From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,
I'll play the penitent to you; but mine honesty
Shall not make poor my greatness: Truth is,—Fulvia,
To have me out of Ægypt, made wars here;
For which myself, the ignorant motive, do
So far ask pardon, as befits mine honour
To stoop in such a case.

Lep.
'Tis nobly spoken,

Cæs.
I do not much mislike the matter, but
The manner of his speech; for't cannot be,
We shall remain in friendship, our conditions
So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew
What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge
O'the world I would pursue it.

Agr
Give me leave, Cæsar,—

Cæs.
Speak, Agrippa.

Agr.
Thou hast a sister by the mother's side,
Admir'd Octavia: great Mark Antony
Is now a widower.

Cæs.
Say not so, Agrippa.
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
Were well deserv'd of rashness.

Ant.
I am not marry'd, Cæsar: let me hear
Agrippa further speak.

Agr.
To hold you in perpetual amity,
With an unslipping knot, take Antony
Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims
No worse a husband than the best of men:
Whose virtue, and whose general graces, speak
That which none else can utter. By this marriage,
Her love to both
Would each to other, and all loves to both,
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke;
For 'tis a studied, not a present thought,
By duty ruminated.

Ant.
Will Cæsar speak?

Cæs.
Not till he hears how Antony is touch'd
With what is spoke already.

Ant.
What power is in Agrippa,
If I would say, Agrippa, be it so,
To make this good?

Cæs
The power of Cæsar, and
His power unto Octavia.

Ant.
May I never
To this good purpose, that so fairly shews,
Dream of impediment. [They rise.
Let me have thy hand:
Further this act of grace; and from this hour,
The hearts of brothers govern in our loves,
And sway our great designs!

Cæs.
A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother
Did ever love so dearly: Let her live
To join our kingdoms, and our hearts; and never
Fly off our loves again!

Ant.
I did not think to draw my sword 'gainst Pompey;
For he hath laid strange courtesies, and great,
Of late upon me: I must thank him only,
Lest my remembrance suffer ill report;
At heel of that, defy him.

Lep.
Time calls upon us:
Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
Or else he seeks out us.

Ant.
Where lies he?

Cæs.
About the Mount Misenum.

Ant.
What's his strength
By land?

Cæs.
Great, and encreasing; but, by sea,
He is an absolute master.

Ant.
So is the fame.
Yet, 'ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we
The business we have talk'd of.

Cæs.
With most gladness;
And do invite you to my sister's view,
Whither straight I'll lead you.

Ant.
Let us, Lepidus,
Not lack your company.

Lep.
Noble Antony,
Not sickness shall detain me. [Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE.—Alexandria—A Room in the Palace. Enter Cleopatra, Charmion, Iras, and Alexas.

Cle.
Give me some musick; musick, moody food
Of us that trade in love.—No, let it be.
We'l to the river;—there I will betray

Tawny-finn'd fishes: as I draw them up,
I'll think them every one an Antony,
And say, “Ah! Ha! you're caught.”

Char.
'Twas merry, when
You wager'd on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.

Cle.
That time!—O times!—
I laugh'd him out of patience; and, that night,
I laugh'd him into patience; and, next morn,
Ere the ninth hour, I laugh'd him to his bed;—
Then put my ties and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword Phillippan.—O! from Italy;— Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
Madam, Madam,—

Cle.
Antony's dead?—If thou say so,
Villain, thou kill'st thy mistress:—but well, and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here,
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembl'd, kissing.

Mess.
First, Madam, he is well.

Cle.
Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark; we use
To say, the dead are well; if he be dead,
(And I perceive no goodness in thy face)
Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes,
Not like a formal man.

Mess.
Wil't please you hear me.

Cle.
I have a mind to spurn thee, 'ere thou speak'st:
Yet, if thou say, Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Cæsar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.

Mess.
Madam, he's well.

Cle.
Well said.

Mess.
And friends with Cæsar.

Cle.
Thou art an honest man.

Mess.
Cæsar and he, are greater friends than ever.

Cle.
Make thee a fortune from me.

Mess.
But yet, Madam,—

Cle.
I do not like, but yet; it does allay
The good precedence. 'Pr'ythee, pr'ythee friend,
Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear,
The good and bad together: He's friends with Cæsar;
In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free.

Mess.
Free, Madam? No; I made no such report:
He's—married to Octavia.

Cle.
The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

Mess.
Good Madam, have patience!

Cle.
What say you? hence!

Mess.
Gracious Madam,
I, that do bring the news, made not the match.

Cle.
Say, 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud:
And I will boot thee with what gift beside,
Thy modesty can beg.—Come hither, Sir.

Mess.
I have done my duty.

Cle.
Is he married?
I cannot hate thee worse than now I do,
If thou again say, yes.

Mess.
Too sure he is; and, 'ere I quitted Rome,
He and Octavia had embark'd for Athens. [Exit Messenger.

Char.
Good, your Highness, patience.

Cle.
Lead me hence,
I faint: O, Iras, Charmion!—'Tis no matter—
Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years,

Her Inclination; let him not leave out
The colour of her hair: bring me word quickly. [Exit Alexas.
Let him for ever go! Pity me, Charmion,
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. [Exeunt. Scene 3 SCENE—Athens. A Room in Antony's House. Enter Antony, and Octavia.

Ant.
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,
That were excusable; that, and thousands more
Of semblable import;—but since we married,
And have dwelt here, in Athens, he hath waged
New wars 'gainst Pompey, made his will, and read it
To public ear;
Spoke scantily of me; when, perforce he could not
But pay me terms of honour, cold, and sickly,
He vented them; most narrow measure lent me:
When the best hint was given him, he not took't,
Or did it from his teeth.

Oct.
O, my good Lord,
Believe not all; or, if you must believe,
Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
If this division chance, ne'er stood between,
Praying for both parts:—Husband win, win brother,
Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway
'Twixt these extremes at all.

Ant.
Gentle Octavia,
Let your best love draw to that point which seeks
Best to preserve it: if I lose mine honour,
I lose myself: better I were not yours,
Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,
Yourself shall go between us. Meantime, Lady,

I'll raise the preparation of a war
Shall stain your brother; speed you then to Rome,—
So your desires are yours.

Oct.
Thanks to my Lord.
The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,
Your reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be
As if the world should cleave, and that slain men
Should solder up the rift.

Ant.
Well, well, the ship awaits you in the harbour:
Choose your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to.

Oct.
Oh, my Lord—farewel!

Ant.
The April's in thy eyes;
Thy tongue will not obey thy heart, nor will
Thy heart inform thy tongue: the swan's down feather
Thus stands upon the swell, at full of tide,
And neither way inclines.—Come on, Octavia;
I'll lead thee to the shore. [Exeunt. Scene 4 SCENE—Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatria's Palace. Cleopatra, and Iras, discover'd. Cleopatra pensively reclined on a Couch.

Cle.
Athens may well be proud! it circles, now,
Within its walls, Bellona's paragon;
The man of men;—ay me! the married man.
Would that Mark Antony could see me thus!
Sure he would sigh, for he is noble natur'd,
And bears a tender heart. I know him well—
Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once,
But, now, 'tis past

Iras.
Let it be past with you—
Forget him, Madam.

Cle.
Never, never, Iras.
Faithless, ungrateful, cruel though he be,
I still must love him. Enter Charmion.
Now, what news, my Charmion?

Char
The man, whom you dispatch'd in trust, to Athens,
Newly return'd, now waits upon your will.

Cle. (Starting up.)
Will Antony be kind?—or, quite forsake me?
Is't life or death? for when he gave his answer,
Fate took the word, and then I died or lived.

Char.
Madam, the Messenger. Enter Messenger.

Cle.
Say,—had'st thou audience
Of great Mark Antony?

Mess.
I found him, Madam,
Encompass'd by a throng that shouted round him:—
When he beheld me struggling through the crowd,
He blush'd, and bade make way.

Cle.
There's comfort yet! (Apart from the Messenger.
Proceed.

Mess.
I told my message,
Just as you gave it, broken and dishearted;
Told him, you only begg'd a last farewel;—
Presented next your letter; which he read,
Then fetch'd an inward groan, and only sigh'd,
As if his heart was breaking. Thus we parted.

Cle. (Apart)
That inward groan gives hopes he may be here,
If but to say farewel. Saw'st thou Octavia?

Mess.
Madam, I did; for, as I reach'd the land,

I view'd her standing at her vessel's prow,
To sail for Italy: our barks approach'd
Almost to contact.

Cle.
Italy! why thither?

Mess.
To reconcile, at Rome, (so rumour spake)
Divisions which, of late, forebode a war
Between her Lord and Cæsar.

Cle.
Blest forebodings!
Long may divisions last, that can divide
That mate, ill-mated, from Mark Antony. (apart.)
Is she as tall as I?

Mess.
She is not, Madam.

Cle.
Dwarfish! he ne'er will like her long.

Char.
O, Isis!
Like her? it is impossible.

Cle.
I think so.
What majesty is in her air? Remember,
If e'er thou look'd'st on majesty.

Mess.
She stoops.
She shews a body, rather than a life:
A statue, than a breather.

Cle.
Is this certain?

Mess.
Or I have no observance.

Cle
There's nothing in her yet:
The fellow has good judgment.

Char.
Excellent.

Cle.
Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long, or round?

Mess.
Round, even to faultiness.

Cle.
For the most part too,
They are foolish that are so. Her hair, what colour?

Mess.
Brown, Madam; and her forehead is as low
As she would wish it.

Cle.
There is gold for thee. [Exit Messenger.

Char.
A proper man.

Cle.
Indeed, he is so; why, methinks, by him,
This creature's no such thing.

Char.
O, nothing, Madam.

Cle.
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Char.
Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
And serving you so long!

Cle.
I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmion:
But, 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
Where I will write: All may be well enough.

Char.
I warrant you, Madam. [Grand flourish. [Shouting, without.]
Antony! Antony! Enter Antony, and Enobarbus.

Cle.
Oh, this I prophecied! (Rushes forward to meet Antony.)
My love! my Lord!
So quick to follow thus my messenger!—

Ant.
Well, Madam, we are met. (coldly.)

Cle.
Is this a meeting?
Then, meet we but to part?

Ant.
We must;—for ever.

Cle.
Who says we must?

Ant.
Our own hard fates.

Cle.
We make those fates ourselves.

Ant.
Yes, we have made 'em; we have lov'd each other
Into our mutual ruin.

Cle.
The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes;
I have no friends in Heav'n, and all the world
Is arm'd against my love: Ev'n you yourself
Join with the rest; you, you are arm'd against me.

Ant.
I will be justify'd in all I do,

To late posterity; and therefore hear me.
If I mix a lie
With any truth, reproach me freely with it;
Else favour me with silence.

Cle.
You command me,
And I am dumb.

Eno.
I like this well. He shows authority.

Ant.
That I derive my ruin
From you alone,—

Cle.
O, Heav'ns! I ruin you!

Ant.
You promis'd me your silence, and you break it,
Ere I have scarce begun.

Cle
Well, I obey you.

Ant.
When I beheld you first, it was in Ægypt.
Ere Cæsar saw your eyes: You gave me love,
And were too young to know it; that I settled
Your father on his throne, was for your sake;
I left th' acknowledgement for time to ripen:
Cæsar stept in, and with a greedy hand
Pluck'd the green fruit, ere the first blush of red,
Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my Lord,
And was, beside, too great for me to rival.
When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia,
An enemy to Rome, I pardon'd you.

Cle.
I clear'd myself.

Ant.
Again you break your promise.
I lov'd you still, and took your weak excuses:
Took you into my bosom, stain'd by Cæsar,
And not half mine. I went to Ægypt with you,
And hid me from the bus'ness of the world;
Shut out enquiring nations from my sight,
To give whole years to you.

Eno.
'Tis all too true.

Ant.
Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,
As she, indeed, had reason; rais'd a war
To call me back.—While in your arms I lay,

The world fell mould'ring from my hands each hour,
And left me scarce a grasp.

Cle
Yet may I speak?

Ant.
If I have urg'd a falsehood, yes; else not.—
Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died;
(Pardon, ye gods! with my unkindness died,)
To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,
This Cæsar's sister; in her pride of youth,
And slow'r of beauty, did I wed that lady;
Whom, blushing, I must praise, for I have left her.
You call'd; my love has now obey'd the summons,
But, if I stay, 'twill raise the Roman arms.
If you have ought to answer,
Now speak—you have free leave.

Eno.
Now lay a sigh i' th' way, to stop his passage
Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions;
'Tis like they shall be sold.

Cle.
How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,
Already have condemn'd me? Shall I bring
The love you bore me for my advocate?
That, now, is turn'd against me; that destroys me;
For, love once past is, at the best, forgotten;
But oft'ner sours to hate: 'twill please my Lord
To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty.
Here then I end. Though I deserve this usage,
Was it like you to give it?

Ant.
O, you wrong me,
To think I sought this parting, or desir'd
T' accuse you more than what will clear myself,
And justify this breach. We're both unhappy.
If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us.
Speak, would you have me perish by my stay?

Cle.
If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go;
If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish,

'Tis a hard word, but stay.
Now, judge my love by this. (Giving Antony a writing.)
Could I have borne
A life, or death, a happiness, or woe,
From your's divided, this had giv'n me means.

Ant.
By Hercules, the writing of Octavius!
I know it well.
See, Enobarbus! here he offers Ægypt,
And joins all Syria to it as a present;
So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes,
And join her arms with his.

Cle.
And yet you leave me!
You leave me, Antony, and yet I love you,
Indeed I do; I have refus'd a kingdom,
That's a trifle,
For I would part with life, with any thing,
But only you. O, let me die with you!
Is that a hard request?

Ant.
Next living with you
'Tis all that Heav'n can give.

Char. (Aside.)
He melts! we conquer!

Cle.
No, you shall go. Your int'rest calls you hence;
Yes, your dear int'rest 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;
Octavia chides; and straight your brow clears up,
As I had never been.

Ant.
Dead! rather let me perish:
My life, my soul, my all! (Embraces her.)

Eno.
And what's this toy,
In balance with your fortune, honour, fame!—

Ant.
What, Enobarbus? it outweighs 'em all.
Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,
And ask forgiveness of wrong'd innocence.

Eno.
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 Cæsar,
This rattle of a globe, to play withal,
This gew-gaw world, and put him cheaply off;
I'll not be pleas'd with less than Cleopatra.

Cle.
She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy
That I shall do some wild extravagance
And cause the plodders of our foolish world,
Who know not tenderness, to think me mad. (March.) [Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra.

Eno.
O women! women! women! all the gods
Have not such pow'r of doing good to man,
As you, of doing harm! [Exit.

ACT III. Scene 1 SCENE—A Room in Cæsar's Palace. Enter Cæsar, Mæcenas and Agrippa.

Cæs.
CONTEMNING Rome, he did all this, and more.
In Alexandria—here's (Shewing papers.) the manner of it,—
I' the market-place, on a tribunal silver'd,
Cleopatra and himself, in chains of gold,
Were publicly enthron'd: at the feet sat
Cæsarion, whom they call my father's son,
And all the unlawful issue, that their crime
Since then hath made between them. Unto her
He gave the 'stablishment of Ægypt; made her,
Of Lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,
Absolute queen.

Mæc.
This in the public eye?

Cæs.
I' the common shew-place, where they exercise:
His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings.
Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia,
He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd
Syria, Cilicia and Phœnicia: She,
In the habiliments of the goddess, Isis,
That day appear'd, and oft before gave audience,
As 'tis reported so.

Mæc.
Let Rome be thus
Inform'd.

Agr
Who, queasy with his insolence
Already, will their good thoughts call from him.

Cæs.
The people know it; and have now receiv'd
His accusations.

Agr.
Whom does he accuse?

Cæs.
Cæsar: and that having, in Sicily,
Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him
His part o'the Isle: then does he say, he lent me
Some shipping, unrestor'd; lastly, he frets,
That Lepidus of the triumvirate
Should be depos'd; and being, that we detain
All his revenue.

Agr.
Sir, this should be answer'd.

Cæs.
'Tis done already, and the messenger gone.
I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel;
That he his high authority abus'd,
And did deserve his change: for what I have conquer'd,
I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia,
And other of his conquer'd kingdoms, I
Demand the like.

Mæc.
He'll never yield to that.

Cæs.
Nor must not then be yielded to in this. Enter Octavia.

Oct.
Hail, Cæsar, and my Lord! hail, most dear Cæsar!
Had not the adverse wind, and raging seas,
Prolong'd my voyage, and driv'n our labouring bark
Leagues from its course. I sooner had embraced you.

Cæs.
That ever I should call thee, cast-away!

Oct.
You have not call'd me so, nor have you cause.

Cæs.
Why have you stol'n upon us thus? You come not
Like Cæsar's sister: The wife of Antony
Should have an army for an usher, and
The neighs of horse to tell of her approach,

Long 'ere she did appear: But you are come
A market-maid to Rome; We should have met you
By sea, and land; supplying every stage
With an augmented greeting.

Oct
Good my Lord,
To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did it
On my free will. My Lord, Mark Antony,
Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted
My grieving ear withal; whereon I beg'd
His pardon for return.

Cæs.
Which soon he granted,
Being an obstruct 'twixt his love and him.

Oct.
Do not say so, my Lord.

Cæs.
I have eyes upon him,
And his affairs come to me on the wind:
Where say you he is now?

Oct.
My Lord, in Athens.

Cæs.
No, no, my most wrong'd sister: Cleopatra
Hath nodded him to her; and they are levying
The kings o'the earth for war against me. Now,
E'en now, they head their force at Actium;
But they have found, I trust, to their confusion,
Our fleet and armies there, prepared to meet them.

Oct.
Ah me most wretched!
That have my heart parted betwixt two friends,
That do afflict each other.

Cæs.
Welcome hither:
Your letters so far check'd our breaking forth,
Till we perceiv'd, both how you were wrong led,
And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart:
Be you not troubl'd with the time, which drives
O'er your content these strong necessities;
But let determin'd things to destiny,
Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome:
Nothing more dear to me.—You are abus'd
Beyond the mark of thought: and the high gods,
To do you justice, make them ministers

Of us, and those that love you. Be of comfort;—
And ever welcome to us.

Agr.
Welcome, Lady.

Mæc.
Welcome, dear Madam.
Each heart in Rome does love and pity you.

Oct.
Is it so, Sir?

Cæs.
Most certain. Sister, welcome: 'Pray you, now,
Be ever known to patience. My dearest sister! [Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE.—Near Actium.—The Outskirts of Antony's Camp. Enter Cleopatra, and Enobarbus.

Cle.
I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
And have command, here, while we stay in Actium.

Eno.
But why, why, why?

Cle.
Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars;
And say'st it is not fit.

Eno.
Well, is it? is it?

Cle.
Is't not denounced 'gainst Us? Why should not we
Be there in person?

Eno.
Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;
Take from his heart, take from his brain, from his time,
What should not then be spar'd. He is already
Traduc'd for levity; and 'tis said, in Rome,
You, and your maids, manage this war.

Cle.
Sink Rome, and their tongues rot,
That speak against us! A charge we bear i'the war,
And, as the President of my kingdom, will
Appear there for a man. Speak not against it,
I will be in the action.

Eno.
I have done.

Enter Antony, and Canidius.

Ant.
Canidius, we will fight with them by sea.

Cle.
By sea! what else?

Can.
Why will my Lord do so?

Ant.
For that he dares us to't.

Eno.
So hath my Lord dared him to single fight.

Can.
Ay, and to wage this battle in Pharsalia,
Where Cæsar fought with Pompey: But these offers,
Which serve not for his 'vantage, he shakes off,
And so should you.

Eno.
Your ships are not well mann'd;
Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people
Ingrost by swift impress: in Cæsar's fleet
Are those that, often, have 'gainst Pompey fought:
Their ships are yare, your's heavy:—No disgrace
Awaits you for refusing him by sea.

Ant.
By sea, by sea.

Eno.
Why, Sir, you throw away
The absolute soldiership you have by land;
Distract your army; leave unexecuted
Your own renowned knowledge; quite forego
The way which promises assurance; and
Give up yourself merely to chance and peril,
From firm security.

Ant.
I'll fight by sea.

Cle.
I have sixty sail; Cæsar's none better.

Ant
Our overplus of shipping we will burn,
And, with the rest full mann'd, from the head of Actium,
Beat the approaching Cæsar.—If we fail,
We then can do't by land. Enter Messenger.
Thy business?

Mess.
The enemy, my Lord, is now descried.
Cæsar has taken Toryne.

Ant.
There in person!
Well, to our ships:—this speed of Cæsar carries
Beyond belief.

Mess.
While he was, yet, in Rome,
His power went out in such detatchments, as
Beguil'd all spies. [Retires.

Ant.
Canidius,
Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,
And our twelve thousand horse. Haste to thy charge. [Exit Canidius.
So now on board—and cheerly!—Come, my I hetis! [To Cleop.
Away! Away! [Martial flourish. [Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, and followers. Scene 3 SCENE.—The Country near Actium. Enter Canidius, marching, with his Land Army.

Can.
Halt! breathe awhile, ere we ascend the steep.—
Set we our squadrons upon yonder hill,
In eye of Cæsar's battle;—from which place
We may the number of the ships behold,
And so proceed accordingly. [Alarum from the Sea.
The fleets
Draw near each other; Roman strains of war,
With Ægypt's timbrels mingling, on the sea,
Proclaim immediate action.—To the heights;
Steadily, soldiers.—March! [Exeunt. Scene 4 SCENE.—Sea Shore—Open Sea beyond it. A Grand Sea Fight; which ends in the defeat of Antony and Cleopatra.

Scene 5 SCENE.—Open Country, near Actium. Enter Philo.

Philo.
Lost! lost! all lost! I can behold no longer:
The Antoniad, the Ægyptian Admiral,
With all their sixty, fly, and turn the rudder;
Now, Enobarbus? Enter Enobarbus.

Eno.
Gods and goddesses!
The greater portion of the world is lost,
With very ignorance; we have kiss'd away
Provinces, kingdoms!

Philo.
How appears the fight?

Eno.
On our side like the spotted pestilence,
Where death is sure. Yon ribald hag of Ægypt,
Whom leprosy o'ertake! i'the midst o'the sight,
When 'vantage like a pair of twins appear'd,
Both as the same, or rather our's the elder,
Hoists sail, and flies:—and she, once being looft,
The noble ruin of her magick, Antony,
Claps on his sea wing, like a doting mallard,
Leaving the battle, and flies after her.
I never saw an action of such shame;
Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before
Did violate so itself. Enter Canidius.

Can.
Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,
And sinks most lamentably. Had our General
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well:
Oh, he has given example for our flight,
Most grossly by his own.

Eno.
Ay, are you thereabouts? Why then, good night
Indeed!

Can.
Towards Peloponnesus are they fled.

Philo.
And thence, no doubt, to Ægypt.

Can.
Doubtless so.
To the all conquering Cæsar I will render
My legions and my horse; six kings already
Shew me the way of yielding. [Shouts.

Eno.
Hark! the enemy!
I'll follow yet the wounded chance of Antony,
Although my reason sits i'the wind against me. [Shouts again. Exeunt, severally. Scene 6 SCENE.—Another part of the Country, near Actium. Enter Cæsar, and his Train.

Cæs.
Where is the man whom Antony, when flying,
Sent from his fleet to shore.

Atten.
Cæsar, he's here. Ambassador from Antony advances.

Cæs.
Approach, and speak.

Amb.
Such as I am, I come from Antony:
I was, of late, as petty to his ends,
As is the morn dew on the myrtle leaf
To the vast ocean.

Cæs.
Well;—declare thine office.

Amb.
Lord of his fortunes, he salutes thee, and
Requires to live in Ægypt: which not granted,
He sues to breathe between the heavens and earth,
A private man in Athens: This from him.
Next Cleopatra craves of thee her diadem;
For now she feels, if thou pursu'st the fall'n,
'Tis hazarded to thy grace.

Cæs.
For Antony,
I have no ears to his request. The queen
Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she
From Ægypt drive her all disgraced friend.

Amb.
Fortune attend thee!

Cæs.
In thy course to Ægypt,
A messenger of mine, to Cleopatra,
Must be thy fellow.—Bring him through the bands. [Exit Ambassador.
Thyreus,—

Thyr. (advancing.)
My Lord—

Cæs.
Thou must sail with him, Thyreus.
From Antony win Cleopatra; promise,
And in our name, what she requires; add more,
(From thine invention) offers. Try thy cunning;
Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we
Will answer as a law.

Thyr.
Cæsar, I go.

Cæs.
Go quickly, then; and should thy vessel prove
A sluggard to the wind, I may set foot
On Afric's ground before thee. [Exit Thyreus.
Now, my friends,
We must, once more, embark to seek these runaways:
'Tis fit we take the lion we have driven
Into his last retreat. Therefore, for Ægypt.
Strike,—and march on! [Exeunt. Scene 7 SCENE.—Alexandria—The Interior of Cleopatra's Palace. Enter Antony, with Attendants.

Ant.
This land of Ægypt bids me tread no more on't.
It is asham'd to bear me.—Friends, come hither:

I am so lated in the world, that I
Have lost my way for ever:—I have one ship,
Laden with gold:—take that, divide it;—fly,—
And make your peace with Cæsar.

All.
Fly? not we!

Ant.
I fled myself; and have instructed others
To run and shew their shoulders.

Atten.
Sir, the Queen. Enter Cleopatra, and Attendants.

Cle.
O, my Lord! my Lord!
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
You would have follow'd

Ant.
Ægypt, thou knew'st too well
My heart was to thy rudder ty'd by the strings,
And thou should'st tow me after.

Cle.
Pardon, pardon!

Ant.
Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
All that is won and lost!—Now, kiss me, sweet!
Even this repays—Oh, I am full of lead.
Some wine there, and our viands. Thou wilt follow;
Wilt thou not, soon?—Oh! [Exit. Enter a Male Attendant.

Atten.
A messenger from Cæsar.

Cle.
What, no more ceremony!—See, my women,
They treat with negligence the rose, when blown,
That kneel'd unto the buds—Admit him, Sir. Enter Thyreus.
Cæsar's will?

Thyr.
Hear it apart.

Cle.
None but friends; say on boldly.

Thyr.
Thus then;—the most renown'd Cæsar intreats
Not to consider in what case thou stand'st,

(For soon his forces will set foot on Ægypt)
Further than he is Cæsar.

Cle.
On—right royal.

Thyr.
He knows that you embrace not Antony
As you did love, but as you fear'd him.

Cle.
O!—

Thyr.
The scars upon your honour, therefore, he
Does pity, as constrained blemishes,
Not as deserv'd.

Cle.
He is a god; and knows
What is most right.

Thyr.
Shall I, then, say to Cæsar,
What you require of him? for he partly begs
To be desir'd to give. It much would please him,
That of his fortunes you should make a staff
To lean upon: but it would warm his spirits
To hear from me you had left Antony,
And put yourself under his shroud, the great,
The universal landlord.

Cle.
What's your name?

Thyr.
My name is Thyreus.

Cle.
Most kind messenger,
Say to great Cæsar this. By deputation
I kiss his conquering hand: tell him, I am prompt
To lay my crown at his feet, and there to kneel;
And from his all-obeying breath to hear
The doom of Ægypt.

Thyr.
'Tis your noblest course.
Wisdom and fortune combating together,
If that the former dare but what it can,
No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay
My duty on your hand.

Cle.
Your Cæsar's father, oft, (giving her hand.)
When he hath mus'd of taking kingdoms in,
Bestow'd his lip on that unworthy place,
As it rain'd kisses.

Re-enter Antony.

Ant.
Why tarries thus my Cleopatra?—Ha?
Favours, by Jove that thunders!
What art thou, fellow?

Thyr.
One that but performs
The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest
To have command obey'd.

Ant.
Approach there: What, have you no ears?
I am Enter Attendants.
Antony yet—Take hence this Jack, and whip him,
Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face,
And whine aloud for mercy: Take him hence.

Thyr.
Mark Antony,—

Ant.
Tug him away. This Jack of Cæsar's shall
Bear us an errand to him. [Exeunt Attendants with Thyreus.

Cle.
O, is it come to this? Wherefore is this?

Ant.
To let a fellow that will take rewards,
And say, “God quit you,” be familiar with
My play-fellow, your hand: this kingly seal,
And plighter of high hearts! Re-enter Attendants with Thyreus.
Henceforth,
The white hand of a lady fever thee,
Shake thou to look on't! Get thee back to Cæsar,
Tell him thy entertainment; look thou say,
He makes me angry; harping on what I am,
Not what he knew I was: He makes me angry;
And at this time, most easy 'tis to do't;

When my good stars, that were my former guides,
Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires,
Into the abyss of hell.
Hence with thy stripes, begone! [Exit Thyreus.

Cle.
Have you done yet?

Ant.
Alack! our terrene moon
Is now eclips'd, and it portends alone
The fall of Antony.

Cle.
I must stay his time.

Ant.
To flatter Cæsar, would you mingle eyes
With one that ties his points?

Cle.
Not know me yet?

Ant.
Cold-hearted toward me?

Cle.
Ah, dear! if it be so,
From my cold heart let Heaven engender hail,
And poison it in the source, and the first stone
Drop in my neck; as it determines, so
Dissolve my life!

Ant.
I am satisfi'd.
Cæsar will soon sit down in Alexandria;
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
Will nobly hold; our sever'd navy, too,
May knit again, our fleet, threat'ning most sea-like.
Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, Lady?
When in the field I enter, and return
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;
I and my sword will earn our chronicle;
There is hope in it yet.

Cle.
That's my brave Lord!

Ant.
I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd,
And fight maliciously; for when mine hours
Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives
Of me for jests; but now, I'll set my teeth,
And send to darkness all that stop me Come,
Let's have one other gaudy night; call to me

All my sad captains; fill our bowls; once more,
Let's mock the midnight bell.

Cle.
It is my birth-day:
I had thought to have held it poor; but since my Lord
Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

Ant.
We'll yet do well.

Cle.
Call all his noble captains to my Lord.

Ant.
Do so; we'll speak to them; to-night I'll force
The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen;
There's sap in't yet:—the next time I do fight,
I'll make death love me; for I will contend
Even with his pestilent scythe. [Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, and Attendants. ACT IV. Scene 1 SCENE—The Interior of Cleopatra's Palace. Enter Alexas, and Enobarbus.

Alex.
YES; we shall fare but ill, now these same Romans
Have cross'd the seas, and sat down here before us,
In Alexandria.

Eno.
Most scurvily.

Alex. (Looking out.)
But who's that stranger: By his warlike port,
He's of no vulgar note.

Eno.
Ha!—'tis Ventidius!
Our Emperor's great lieutenant in the East;
Who first shew'd Rome that Parthia could be conquer'd.
When Antony return'd from Syria last,
He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

Alex.
You seem to know him.

Eno.
Aye;—I honour him.
A braver Roman never drew a sword.
Firm to his prince; but as a friend, not slave.
He ne'er was of his pleasures, but presides
O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels.
In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue,
Of an old true stampt Roman lives in him.
His coming bodes some good, I trust.—Withdraw,
We shall learn more, anon. [Exeunt Enobarbus and Alexas. Enter Ventidius, and an Ægyptian Attendant.

Ven.
Nay, tell thy queen,
Ventidius is arriv'd, to end her charms.
Let your Ægyptian timbrels play alone;
Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets.
You dare not fight for Antony; go pray,
And keep your coward's holy-day in temples. Enter an Officer of Antony.

Off.
The emperor approaches, and commands,
On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

Ægyp.
I dare not disobey him. [Exeunt Officer and Ægyptian Attendant.

Ven.
Well, I dare;—
But I'll observe him first unseen, and find
Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll venture. (Withdraws.)

Enter Antony.

Ant.
Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd,
Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward,
To be trod out by Cæsar?

Ven.
On my soul,
'Tis mournful; wond'rous mournful!

Ant.
Count thy gains.
Now, Antony, would'st thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune! thy devouring youth
Has starv'd thy wanting age.

Ven. (Aside.)
How sorrow shakes him!
So, now the tempest tears him up by th' roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin. [(Antony having thrown himself on the ground.

Ant.
Lie here, thou shadow of an emperor!
The place thou pressest on thy mother earth
Is all thy empire now: Now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia,
(For Cleopatra will not live to see it)
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widow'd hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,
To see his rival of the universe
Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.

Ven.
I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. (Standing before him.)

Ant. (Starting up.)
Art thou Ventidius?

Ven.
Are you Antony?
I'm more like what I was, than you to him
I left you last.

Ant.
I'm angry.

Ven.
So am I.

Ant.
I would be private; leave me.

Ven.
Sir, I love you,
And therefore will not leave you.

Ant.
Will not leave me?
Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

Ven.
My emperor; the man I love next Heav'n:
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:
You're all that's good, and god-like.

Ant.
All that's wretched.
You will not leave me, then?

Ven.
'Twas too presuming
To say I would not;—but I dare not leave you:
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence
So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

Ant.
Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfi'd?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;
And, if a foe, too much.

Ven.
Look, emperor, this is no common dew; (Weeping.)
I have not wept this forty years, but now
My mother comes afresh into my eyes;
I cannot help her softness.

Ant.
By Heav'n he weeps! poor, good old man, he weeps!
The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death: They set my shame,
That caus'd 'em, full before me.

Ven.
I'll do my best.

Ant.
Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:
See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not
For my own griefs, but thine. Nay, father,—

Ven
Emperor.

Ant.
Emperor! why, that's the stile of victory;
The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,

Salutes his general so; but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent.
I warrant you.

Ant.
Actium, Actium! Oh—

Ven.
It sits too near you.

Ant.
Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day,
And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,
The hag that rides my dreams.

Ven.
Out with it, give it vent.

Ant.
Urge not my shame.
I lost a battle.

Ven.
So has Julius done.

Ant.
Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st;
For Julius fought it out, and lost it bravely;
But Antony—

Ven.
Nay, stop not.

Ant.
Antony,—well, thou wilt have it—like a coward fled,
Fled while his soldiers fought; sled first, Ventidius:
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave;
I know thou cam'st prepar'd to rail.

Ven.
I did.

Ant.
I'll help thee. I have been a man, Ventidius.

Ven.
Yes, and a brave one; but—

Ant.
I know thy meaning:—
But I have lost my reason, have disgrac'd
The name of soldier with inglorious ease.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it,
And purple greatness met my ripen'd years;
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
I was so great so happy, so belovd.
Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains
And work'd against my fortune, chid her from me:
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,

At length have weari'd her, and now she's gone,
Gone, gone, divorc'd for ever.—'Pr'ythee, curse me.

Ven.
No,

Ant.
Why?

Ven.
I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds.

Ant.
I know thou would'st.

Ven.
I will.

Ant.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ven.
You laugh,

Ant.
I do, to see officious love
Give cordials to the dead.

Ven.
You would be lost, then?

Ant.
I am.

Ven.
I say, you are not. Try your fortune.

Ant.
I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate
Without just cause?—All's lost beyond repair;
I scorn the world, and think it not worth keeping.

Ven.
Cæsar thinks not so;
He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
You would be kill'd; hold out your throat to Cæsar,
And so die tamely.

Ant.
I can kill myself.

Ven.
I can die with you too, when time shall serve;
But fortune calls upon us, now, to live;
To fight, to conquer.

Ant
Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

Ven.
Up for your honour's sake! twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief. By painful journeys
I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marshes to the Nile;
'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces;

Their scarr'd cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 'em;
They'll sell their mangled limbs at dearer rates
Than yon trim bands can buy.

Ant.
Where left you them?

Ven.
I said, on the banks o'the Nile.

Ant.
Then, bring 'em hither;
There may be life in these.

Ven.
They will not come:
They petition
You would make haste to head 'em.

Ant.
I'm besieg'd.

Ven.
There's but one way shut up:—How came I hither?

Ant.
I will not stir.

Vent.
They would, perhaps, desire
A better reason.

Ant.
I have never us'd
My soldier's to demand a reason of
My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

Ven.
They said, they would not fight for Cleopatra.

Ant.
What was't they said?

Ven.
They said, they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Why should they fight indeed to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave?

Ant.
Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra: She deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Ven.
I take the privilege of plain love to speak.

Ant.
Plain love! plain arrogance! plain insolence!
Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor;
Who, under seeming honestly, hast vented
The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall.

Oh! that thou wert my equal; great in arms
As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee,
Without a stain to honour.

Ven.
You may kill me;
You have done more already,—call'd me traitor.

Ant.
Art thou not one?

Ven.
For shewing you yourself,
Which none else durst have done; but had I been
That name, which I disdain to speak again,
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes;
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hind'red me to've led my conqu'ring eagles
To join with Cæsar's bands? I could have been
A traitor then; a glorious, happy traitor,
And not have been so call'd.

Ant.
Forgive me, soldier;
I've been too passionate
Why did'st thou tempt my anger, by discovery
Of what I would not hear.

Ven.
No prince but you
Could merit that sincerity I us'd,
Nor durst another man have ventur'd it:
But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eye,
Were sure the chief, and best of human race,
Fram'd in the very pride, and boast of nature!

Ant.
But Cleopatra—
Go on; for I can bear it now.

Ven.
No more.

Ant.
Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st.
Do with me what thou wilt:
Lead me to victory, thou know'st the way.

Ven.
And will you leave this—

Ant.
Pr'ythee, do not curse her,
And I will leave her; though, I leav'n knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire; all but honour.
But I will leave her.

Ven.
That's my royal master!
And shall we fight?

Ant.
I warrant thee, old soldier.
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron;
And, at the head of our old troop, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud—Come follow me!

Ven.
O, now, I hear my Emperor! in that word
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,
And, if I have ten years behind, take all!
I'll thank you for th' exchange.

Ant.
Oh, Cleopatra!

Ven.
Again?

Ant.
I've done. In that last sigh she went.
Cæsar shall know what 'tis to force a lover
From all he holds most dear.

Ven.
Methinks you breathe
Another soul: your looks are more divine;
You speak a Hero, and you move a God.

Ant.
O, thou hast fir'd me! my soul's up in arms,
And mans each part about me: once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seiz'd me;—
That eagerness, with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill
Oppos'd my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shields
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagg'd on the plain below.

Ven.
Ye gods! ye gods!
For such another hour!

Ant.
Come on, my soldier!
Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to 'em; mow 'em out a passage,
And, ent'ring where the foremost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field. Exeunt.

Scene 2 SCENE—Before Alexandria—Cæsar's Camp. Enter Cæsar, with Agrippa and Proculeius.

Cæsar.
Go forth, Agrippa, and urge on the fight;
Our will is, Antony be ta'en alive;
Make it so known.

Agrip.
Cæsar, I shall. [Exit Agrippa.

Cæsar.
The time of universal peace is near;
Prove this a prosperous day, the three nook'd world
Shall bear the olive freely. Enter an Officer.

Officer.
Antony is come into the field.

Cæsar.
Go, charge Agrippa.
Plant those that have revolted in the van,
That Antony may seem to spend his fury
Upon himself. [Exeunt. Shouts, Flourishes, &c. Scene 3 SCENE—The Gates of Alexandria. Flourish, and Shouts, from Antony's Party. Enter Ventidius.

Ven.
Ne'er, till this hour, fought I against my will
For Antony. Plague on his leave-taking!
I thought how her white arms would fold him in,
And mar my wholesome counsels. One hope still
Remains to part him from this—(shouts)—So! he comes. Enter Antony, with his Forces.

Ant.
This day is ours;—Bravely thou fought'st, Ventidius;
We have beat him to his camp.

Ven.
True—against odds;
But still you draw supplies from one poor town,
And all Ægyptians;—Cæsar has the world
All at his beck; Nations come pouring in,
To fill the gaps he makes.

Ant.
Nay, nay, Ventidius,
No more on this theme, now.—Run one before,
To tell the Queen of our approach.—To morrow,
Before the sun shall see us, we'll spill the blood
That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all;
You have fought
Not as you serv'd the cause, but as t'had been
Each man's like mine; Oh! you have shewn all Hectors.
Enter the city; clip your wives, your friends;
Tell them your feats; whilst they, with joyful tears,
Wash the concealment from your wounds, and kiss
The honour'd gashes whole. Enter Cleopatra, attended.
O, thou day o'the world!
Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants in triumph.

Cle.
O, infinite virtue! com'st thou smiling from
The world's great snare, uncaught?

Ant.
My nightingale,
We have beat them to their beds. Behold this man;
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.
Kiss it, my warrior; he hath fought to-day,
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had
Destroy'd in such a shape.

Cle
I'll give thee, friend.
An armour all of gold; it was a king's.

Ant.
He has deserv'd it, were it carbuncl'd

Like holy Phœbus' car.

Ven.
I'll none on't;—no;
Not all the diamonds of the East can bribe
Ventidius from his faith.

Ant.
Give me thy hand; (to Cleopatra.)
Through Alexandria make a jovial march;
Bear our hack'd targets like the men that own them.
Had our great palace the capacity,
To camp this host, we all would drink carouses
To next day's fate, together. Trumpeters,
With brazen din rejoice the city's ear:
Make mingle with our rattling tambourines,
That Heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,
Applauding our approach. [Exeunt all but Antony and Ventidius.

Ven. (Pulling Antony by the sleeve.)
Emperor!

Ant.
'Tis the old argument: I pr'ythee spare me.

Ven
But this one hearing, Emperor.

Ant
Let go
My robe, or by my sather, Hercules,—

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

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

Ven.
I'm 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 faults,
As would confound their choice to punish one,
And not reward the other. Enter Antony.

Ant.
We can conquer.
They look on us at distance, and, like ours,
'Scap'd from the lion's paws, they bay far off;
They lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.

Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,
Lie breathless on the plain.

Ven.
'Tis well: and he,
Who lost 'em, could have spar'd ten thousand more.
Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain
An easier peace, while Cæsar doubts the chance
Of arms,—

Ant.
O, think not on't, Ventidius;
The boy pursues my ruin; he'll no peace.
O, he's the coolest murderer; so stanch,
He kills, and keeps his temper.

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

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

Ven.
Fain I would find some other—

Ant.
Thank thy love;
But wherefore drive me from myself, to search
For foreign aids? to hunt my memory
To find a friend? The wretched have no friends:
Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome;
I scarce need tell his name:—'twas Dolabella.

Ven.
He's now in Cæsar's camp.

Ant.
No matter where,
Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly
That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight,
Because I fear'd he lov'd her. When he departed
He took no leave; and that confirm'd my thoughts.

Ven.
It argues that he lov'd you more than her;
Else he had staid; but he perceiv'd you jealous.
And would not grieve his friend. I know he loves you.

Ant.
I should have seen him then ere now.

Ven.
Perhaps,
He has thus long been lab'ring for your peace.

Ant.
Would he were here!

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

Ant.
Let him appear.

Ven.
I'll bring him instantly. [Exit Ventidius; and Re-enters immediately, with Dolabella.

Ant.
'Tis he himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him.
Art thou return'd at last, my better half?
Come, give me all myself. Oh, Dolabella!
Thou hast beheld me other than I am.
Hast thou not seen my morning chambers fill'd
With scepter'd slaves, who waited to salute me?
With eastearn monarchs, who forgot the sun,
To worship my uprising?

Dol.
Slaves to your fortune.

Ant.
Fortune is Cæsar's now, and what am I?

Ven.
What you have made yourself. I will not flatter.

Ant.
Is this friendly done?

Dol.
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. Can'st thou remember
When, swell'd with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,
As accessary to thy brother's death?

Dol.
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 Ægypt.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burnt ont he water: the stern was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which, to the tune of flutes kept time, and made
The water, which they beat, to follow faster
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description:—she did lye
In her pavillion,
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The fancy out work nature:—On each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.

Dol.
No more—I will not hear it.

Ant.
'Twas Heav'n, or somewhat more;
For she so charm'd 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 disarm'd with wonder?
Did'st thou not shrink behind me from those eyes
And whisper in my ear, “Oh! tell her not
That I accus'd her of my brother's death.”

Dol.
And should my weakness be a plea for yours?
But yet the loss was private that I made:
'I was but myself I lost: I lost no legions:
I had no world to lose, or people's love.

Ant.
This from a friend?

Ven.
Yes, Emperor, a true one.

Dol.
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 Cæsar I excuse you.

Ant.
O ye gods!
Have I then liv'd to be excus'd to Cæsar!

Dol
As to your equal.

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

Dol.
I bring conditions from him.

Ant
Are they noble?
Methinks thou should'st not bring 'em else: granting this,
What pow'r was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper
To honourable terms?
It was my Dolabella, or some god.

Dol.
Nor I; nor yet Mæcenas, nor Agrippa.
They were your enemies; and I, a friend
Too weak alone: yet 'twas a Roman deed.

Ant.
'Twas like a Roman done: Shew me that person,
Who has preserv'd my life, my love, my honour;
Bring us but face to face.

Ven.
That task is mine;
And, Heav'n, thou know'st how pleasing! [Exit Ventidius.

Dol.
You'll remember
To whom you stand oblig'd?

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

Dol.
I fear she will not.

Ant.
She shall, she shall: the Queen, my Dolabella!
Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?

Dol.
I would not see her lost.

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

Dol.
Yes: there's my reason.

Re-enter Ventidius with Octavia.

Ant.
Where? Octavia there! (Starting back.)

Ven.
What, is she poison to you? A disease?
Look on her, view her well.

Dol.
For shame, my Lord! if not for love, receive her
With kinder eyes. If you confess a man,
Meet her, embrace her, bid her welcome to you.
Your arms should open, ev'n without your knowledge,
To clasp her in; your feet should turn to wings,
To bear you to her,

Ant
I stood amaz'd to think how she came hither.

Ven
I sent to her; I brought her in, unknown
To Cleopatra's guards.

Dol.
Yet, are you cold?

Oct.
Thus long I have attened fo r my welcome;
Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.
Who am I?

Ant
Cæsar's sister.

Oct.
That's unkind!
Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,
Know, I had still remain'd in Cæsar's camp;
But your Octavia, your much injur'd wife,
Tho' banish'd from your bed, driv'n from your house,
In spite of Cæsar'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 shew
My duty first, to ask, nay beg, your kindness:
Your hand, my Lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. (Taking his Hand.)

Ven.
Do, take it, thou deserv'st it.

Ant.
I fear, Octavia, you have begg'd my life.

Oct.
Begg'd it, my Lord?

Ant.
Yes, begg'd it, my Ambassadress.
Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,
Rise up, and be a king, shall I fall down,
And cry, forgive me, Cæsar?—no, that word
Would choak me up, and die upon my tongue.

Dol.
You shall not need it.

Ant.
I will not need it. Come, you've all betray'd me;
My friend, too! to receive some vile conditions,
My wife has bought me, with her pray'rs and tears;
And now I must become her branded slave.
In ev'ry peevish mood she will upbraid
The life she gave.

Oct.
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 ev'n from her you loath;
For, tho' 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 reconcil'd;
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.

Ven.
Was ever such a strife of sullen honour?
Both scorn to be oblig'd.

Dol.
O, she has touch'd him in the tend'rest part.
See how he reddens with despite, and shame,
To be out-done in generosity!

Ven.
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 propos'd;
For I can ne'er be conquer'd but by love;
But you do all for duty. You would free me;
And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?

Oct.
It was, my Lord.

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

Ven.
I'm glad it pinches there.

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

Ant.
Therefore you love me not?

Oct.
Therefore, my Lord,
I should not love you.

Ant.
Therefore you would leave me?

Oct.
And therefore I should leave you,—if I could.

Ant.
I am vanquish'd. Take me, Octavia;— [Embracing her.
I've been a thriftless debtor to your love,
But all shall be amended.

Oct.
O, blest hour!

Dol.
Happy change!

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

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

Oct.
All there are your's. Enter Alexas, hastily.

Alex.
The Queen, my mistress, Sir, and yours—

Ant.
'Tis past!
Octavia, you shall stay this night; to-morrow,
Cæsar and we are one. [Exit, leading Octavia; Dolabella follows.

Ven.
There's news for you; run, my officious pandar;
Be sure to be the first; haste forward: go—
Haste, my dear go-between!—haste! [Exeunt. ACT V. Scene 1 SCENE—Outside of the City of Alexandria. Enter Antony, and Ventidius.

Ant.
'TIS plain, Ventidius, Cæsar has dissembled;
He knows no honour, he!—and the conditions,
Sent by Octavia and Dolabella,
Were treacherously meant.

Ven.
You please to think so.

Ant.
Is it not clear?—He'll not withdraw his troops.

Ven.
And thus the war continues.—I had hopes
To patch up peace.

Ant.
Thou see'st it cannot be.

Ven.
Well, well!

Ant.
So cold! wilt thou, as numbers have,
When Fortune is upon the wane, forsake me?

Ven.
I shall forsake you when I die;—not sooner.

Ant.
My friend! (soften'd).

Ven.
Come, cheerly, General;—your genius
O'er Cæsar's still may rise;—for him you conquer'd;
Philippi knows it;—then you shared with him
That Empire which your sword made all your own.

Ant.
Fool that I was!—upon my Eagle's wing,
I bore this Wren, till I was tired of soaring,
And, now, he mounts above me.

Ven.
We lose time.
The day advances.

Ant.
We'll to yonder eminence:—
The preparation is, to-day, by sea;
We please them not by land.

Ven.
The preparation
Is both for sea and land: On sea, I fear,
Tis a frail venture, since your loss at Actium.

Ant.
I would they fought in fire, or in the air!
We'd fight there too.—But, this it is, Ventidius:
Order for sea is given; and our best force
Is forth to man the gallies.—With our foot,
Upon the hills adjoining to the City,
Their naval movements we may best discover,
And look on their endeavours.—Follow me. [Exit Antony.

Ven.
Swallows have built
In Cleopatra's sails their nests: the Augurers

Say, they know not,—they cannot tell,—look grimly,
And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts,
His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear,
Of what he has, and has not.—To the last,
Though my brave General be fall'n to dotage,
My love, against my judgment, clings to him. [Exit. Scene 2 SCENE—Interior of Cleopatra's Palace. (Shouts at a distance.) Enter Cleopatra, Charmion, and Iras.

Cle.
Hear'st thou how fares the battle?

Char.
Antony
Now stands surveying our Ægyptian gallies,
Engaging Cæsar's fleet. (Shout again).

Cle.
Now death, or conquest!

Iras.
Have comfort, Madam;—'twas a cheering shout. (Shouts repeated).
Hark! they redouble it.

Char.
'Tis from the port.

Cle.
Good news, kind Heav'n! Enter Alexas.

Alex.
O, horror, horror!
Ægypt has been;—our latest hour is come;
Time has unroll'd our glories to the last,
And, now, closed up the volume.

Cle.
Say the worst.

Alex.
Proud on the waves, your well appointed fleet
Row'd forth to sea, and smooth the well-timed oars
Were dipt to meet the foe;—soon did they meet,

But not as foes! In brief, we saw their caps
On either side thrown up; Ægyptian gallies
(Receiv'd like friends) past through, and fell behind
The Roman rear; and, now, they all come forward,
And ride within the port.

Cle.
Enough, Alexas;
I've heard my doom!—What says Mark Antony?
Where is he? Oh, he will be more enraged
Than Telamon for his shield!

Alex.
You must avoid him.
He raves on you, and cries he is betray'd.
His fury shakes his fabrick like an earthquake;
Heaving for vent, he bursts, like bellowing Ætna,
In sounds scarce human.—Do not see him yet.

Cle.
I must not.—Whither go?

Alex.
Retire, awhile,
Within your monument:—meet not this tempest;
It will o'erblow.

Cle.
Not till he hears I'm dead;—
Then would this gust of anger end in grief.

Alex.
E'en that way turn it, then;—let me report
To Antony that you have slain yourself:
When undeceiv'd, his joy will be so great,
He will forgive, if not forget, the ills
Our fleet hath wrought him.

Cle.
Well, well, be it so.
And yet, 'tis not for fear that I avoid him:
I know him noble; when he banish'd me,
And thought me false, he scorn'd to take my life.
But I'll be justified, and then die with him.
Away, Alexas!—Come, my women, come! Exeunt.—Cleopatra, and her Women, on one side; Alexas on the other.]

Scene 3 SCENE—Within the Town of Alexandria. Enter Antony, and Ventidius.

Ant.
Gods! how this foul Ægyptian hath betray'd me!
Her fleet and Cæsar's mingle in the port,
And there, like long-lost friends, carouse together.
O, sun! thy up-rise shall I see no more;
Fortune and Antony part here, even here!—
All come to this! to this!

Ven.
This Ægypt is
One universal traitor; and their queen
The spirit, and the extract, of 'em all.

Ant.
Is there yet left a possibility?—
The least unmortgaged hope?—for, if there be,
Methinks I should not fall beneath the fate
Of such a boy as Cæsar.

Ven.
There are, yet,
(The remnant now fled with us from the hills)
Three legions left. 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're enough.

Ven.
Now you shall see I love you:—not a word
Of chiding more: By my few hours of life!
I am so pleas'd with this brave Roman fate,
That I would not be Cæsar to outlive you.

Ant.
Who knows but yet we may— Enter Alexas.
How now, Alexas?

Ven.
He comes from Cleopatra;—from your ruin;
And looks a lie before he utters it.
Hence, villain, hence!

Ant.
Away from me for ever!
No syllable to justify thy queen:
Let her begone; the blot of my renown,
And bane of all my hopes! Let her be driven,
As far as man can think, from human commerce;
She'll poison to the center!

Alex.
Sir, be satisfied,
She'll ne'er molest you more;—she could not bear
To be accus'd by you; but shut herself
Within her monument: Her silent tears
Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting:
At last, with dying looks—

Ant.
My heart forebodes!—

Ven.
All for the best: Go on.

Alex.
She snatch'd her poignard,
And, 'ere we could prevent the fatal blow,
Plung'd it within her breast. Go, bear my Lord,
(Turning to me, she said,) my last farewel;
And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith:—
More she was saying, but death rush'd betwixt:—
She half pronounc'd your name, with her last breath,
And half was lost with it.

Ant.
And art thou dead?
Dead, Cleopatra! Oh, then what am I?
The murderer of this truth, this innocence!
Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid
As can express my guilt! Oh, my poor love!

Ven.
Is't come to this? the gods have been too gracious;
And thus you thank 'em for't.

Ant. (To Alexas.)
Why stay'st 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. [Exit Alexas.
I will not fight; There's no more work for war;
The business of my angry hours is done.

Ven.
Cæsar is at your gate.

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

Ven.
What lethargy has crept into your soul?

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

Ven.
Do it bravely.

Ant.
I will; but not by fighting. O, Ventidius!
What should I fight for now? My Cleopatra,
Now thou art dead, let Cæsar take the world,—
An empty circle, since the jewel's gone
Which made it worth my strife.

Ven.
Wou'd you be taken?

Ant.
Yes, I wou'd be taken;
But, as a Roman ought,—dead, my Ventidius.

Ven.
As I shall not outlive you, I could wish
We threw life from us with a better grace;
That, like two lions, taken in the toils,
We might, at least thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters that inclose us.

Ant.
I have thought on't;
Ventidius, you must live.

Ven.
I must not, Sir.

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

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

Ant.
Say, I command it.

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

Ant.
Thou hast lov'd me,
And fain I wou'd reward thee; I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death
To make thee friends with Cæsar.

Ven.
Did I think
You wou'd have us'd 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.
I have thought better; do not twice deny me.

Ven.
By Heav'n, I will not,
So it be not t' outlive you.

Ant
Kill me first.

Ven.
Give me your hand.
We shall soon meet again. Now, farewel, Emperor— (Embraces.)
Methinks that word's too cold to be my last:
Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewel, Friend!
And, yet, I cannot look on you, and kill you:
'Pray, turn your face.

Ant.
I do: strike home, be sure.

Ven.
Home as my sword will reach. (Kills himself.)

Ant.
O, thou mistak'st:
Thou robb'st me of my death.

Ven.
Think 'tis the first time that I e'er deceiv'd you,
If that may plead my pardon. And, you gods,
Forgive me, oh, forgive! for I die perjur'd,
Rather than kill my friend. (Dies.)

Ant.
Farewel! Ever my leader, ev'n in death!
My queen and thou have got the start of me,
And I'm the lag of honour. (Falls on his Sword.) Ah! not dead!

I've mist my heart—O, unperforming hand!
Thou never cou'd'st have err'd in a worse time. [Noise without.
Hark! I hear footsteps.—Oh, dispatch, dispatch me! Enter Philo, with Soldiers.

Philo.
Whence are those groans! Ha,—'tis our General!

Ant.
I've done my work ill, friends; make, make an end
Of what I have begun.

Philo.
Not I!—nor any one. Enter Diomedes.

Dio.
Where is Mark Antony?

Philo. (Mournfully.)
Here, Diomed!

Dio.
Oh, heavy sight! [Sees Antony.

Ant.
Diomed, is it not?

Dio.
I come, Sir, from the Queen; from Cleopatra.

Ant.
When did she send?

Dio.
Now, my Lord.

Ant.
Now! where is she?

Dio.
Lock'd in her monument:—for when she heard
You did suspect she had made terms with Cæsar,
(Which never will be found) and that your rage
Could not be sooth'd, she yielded to Alexas
Her hasty leave to tell you she was dead,
But, fearing since, how it might work, hath sent
Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,
I dread, too late!

Ant.
Too late, good Diomed: Call my guard, I pr'ythee.

Dio.
What, ho! the Emperor's guard!—Come, your Lord calls.

Enter a Guard.

Ant.
Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides.
'Tis the last service that I shall command you.

A Soldier.
Woe, woe are we, you may not live to wear
All your true followers out!

Ant.
Nay, my good fellows! please not our hard fate
To grace it with your sorrows. Yonder lies,
In death, the brave Ventidius:—Bear his corse
To burial;—and respect it as my own.—
And—life flows fast—Take me to Cleopatra! [Soldiers throng round, and support him.
I've led you oft;—lead me, now, gallant friends,
And have my thanks for all! [Exit Mark Antony, supported by his Guard—other Soldiers join their shields, on which they place the corse of Ventidius, and bear it away. Scene 4 SCENE.—A Street in Alexandria. Enter Cæsar, Dolabella, Agrippa, and Soldiers.

Cæs.
How! fall'n upon his sword, and dying, say you?

Dol.
'Tis held for certain that he cannot live.

Cæs.
The breaking of so great a spirit should
Convulse the frame of nature; this our globe
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to dens. In his name lay
A moiety of the world. O Antony!
I've follow'd thee to this: I must, perforce,
Have shewn to thee such a declining day,
Or look on thine.

Agr.
Cæsar is touch'd

Dol.
When such a spacious mirror's set before him,
He needs must see himself.

Cæsar.
Come hither, Dolabella;
Hie thee to Cleopatra; say to her
We purpose her no shame: give her what comfort
The quality of her passion shall require;
Lest, in her greatness, by some desperate act
She do defeat us; for her life in Rome
Would be eternal in our triumph.—Go. [Exit Dolabella.
On, in our march, through Alexandria. [Flourish, Exeunt. Scene 5 SCENE.—The Interior of a Monument. Cleopatra, Charmion, and Iras, discover'd.

Cle.
O Charmion, I shall ne'er go hence!

Char.
Be comforted.

Cle.
No;—strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it. Enter Diomedes.
How now?—is he dead?

Dio.
His death's upon him, but not dead.
Look out o'the other side your monument;
His Guard now bring him hither.

Cle.
O, Sun! now quit the shining sphere thou mov'st in,
And leave the world in darkness.—O, Mark Antony! Enter Antony, supported by the Guard.
Help, help! (Running to him.)

Ant.
I'm dying, Cleopatra, dying!
But here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses, the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.

Cle.
O, come, come, come! (Embracing him.)
And die where thou hast liv'd: had my lips power
Thus would I wear them out.

Ant.
Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

Cle.
No, let me rail at fortune; and—

Ant.
One word, sweet:
Of Cæsar seek your honour, and your safety.

Cle.
They do not go together.

Ant.
Gentle, hear me;—
None about Cæsar trust, but Proculeius.

Cle.
My resolution, and my hand, I'll trust;—
None about Cæsar.

Ant.
The miserable change, now, at my end,
Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts
In feeding them with those my former fortunes;
Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o'the world,
The noblest; and do now not basely die,
Nor cowardly;—put off my helmet to
My countryman; a Roman, by a Roman,
Valiantly vanquish'd;—and—my spirit is going;
I can no more!—one kiss!—and—Oh! [Dies.

Cle.
The crown o'the earth doth melt! My Lord! my Lord!
O, wither'd is the garland of the war!
The soldier's pride is fall'n;—the odds are gone;
And there is nothing left of worth beneath
The visiting moon!

Char.
O, quietness, dear lady! [Cleopatra faints.

Iras
Oh, Madam, Madam!

Char.
Leave us with the Queen,
Awhile, good Diomed. Take the soldiers hence. [Exit Diomedes, with the Soldiers

Cle. (Recovering.)
Ah me!—Is't Charmion there? what, Iras, too?

My faithful girls!—Ah, women, women, look!
Look there! look there! (Pointing to Antony.)
The case of that huge spirit now is cold.

Char.
Dear, royal Empress!

Cle.
Good now, come; take heart:
We'll bury him; and then what's brave, what's noble,
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us. [Noise heard.

Iras.
Listen!—hark!—
Some one has forced the monument.

Cle.
Surprised! Enter Dolabella.
E'en be it so.—Well, Sir, you come from Cæsar.

Dol.
Cæsar sends greeting to the Queen of Ægypt;
And bids thee study on what fair demands
Thou mean'st to have him grant thee.

Cle.
What's thy name?

Dol.
My name is Dolabella:—
Most noble Queen, assuredly you know me?

Cle.
No matter, Sir, what I have heard, or known.
You laugh, when boys, or women, tell their dreams;
Is't not your trick?

Dol.
I understand not, Madam.

Cle.
I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony:—
O, such another sleep! that I might see
But such another man!

Dol.
Hear me, good Madam:
Your loss is mighty as yourself; you bear it
As answering to the weight.—Would I might never
O'ertake pursu'd success, but I do feel
A grief, that strikes my very heart at root.

Cle.
I thank you, Sir.—
Know you what Cæsar means to do with me?

Dol.
I am loth to tell you what I would you knew.

Cle.
He'll lead me, then, in triumph?

Dol.
Madam, he will: Once, sworn by your command,
Which my love makes religion to obey,
I tell you this:—Cæsar through Syria
Intends his journey; and, within three days,
You, with your children, will he send before:
Make your best use of this: I have perform'd
Your pleasure, and my promise.

Cle.
Dolabella,
I shall remain your debtor.

Dol.
I, your servant.
Adieu, good Queen! I must attend on Cæsar.

Cle.
Farewel, and thanks! [Exit Dolabella.
Now, Charmion, what think'st thou?
Thou, an Ægyptian puppet, shalt be shewn
In Rome, as well as I.

Char.
O, the good gods! and must we live to see it?

Cle.
No, never, never, Charmion! thou remember'st,
This morn, a rural fellow brought me fruit!
And at the bottom of his basket lurk'd
The pretty worm of Nile, that kills, and pains not:
Bring me that basket. [Exit Charmion.
Methinks, I hear
Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Cæsar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath.

Enter Charmion with the basket.

Char.
Oh, Madam! what is it you have resolved!

Cle. (Taking the basket.)
Dull that thou art! I go to meet my love.
Ay, here's the Aspick:—Husband, now, I come! (Goes to a couch, which she ascends: her women compose her on it.
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life.—So, have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewel, kind Charmion! Iras, long farewel! (Kissing them.)
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain! that I may say
The gods themselves do weep.
Come mortal wretch, (To the asp, applying it.)
Come, thou poor venomous fool!
Be angry and dispatch.

Char.
O, Eastern star!

Cle.
Peace, peace!
I soon shall meet my noble Antony,
And meet his kiss, which 'tis my Heav'n to have.

Char.
O, break! O, break, my heart!

Cle.
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,—
O, Antony! (Dies.)

Char.
So, fare thee well!
Now boast thee, Death, in thy possession lies
A pair unparall'd.

Guards. (Without).
Break down the door!

1st Guard.
Where is the Queen?
Cæsar hath sent—

Char.
Too slow a messenger.

1st Guard.
Approach, ho! All's not well:—Cæsar's beguil'd.

2d Guard.
Where's Dolabella; sent from Cæsar? Call him:
He scarcely yet has left the monument.

1st Guard.
What work is here! Charmion, is this well done?

Char.
It is well done, and fitting for a Princess
Descended of so many royal kings. Enter Dolabella.

Dol.
How now? A cry without of

Way there! make way for Cæsar! Enter Cæsar, and Train.

Dol.
O, Sir! you are too sure an augurer;
That you did fear, is done.

Cæsar.
Bravest at the last:
She levell'd at our purposes, and, being royal,
Took her own way. The manner of her death?
I do not see her bleed; she looks like sleep;
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace.

1st Guard. (Taking up the basket.)
These leaves have slime upon them;
Such as the Aspick leaves upon the caves of Nile.

Cæsar.
Most probable
That so she fell: for, I have oft been told,
She hath pursued conclusions infinite
Of easy ways to die.

Now bear the bodies from the monument.
She shall be bury'd by her Antony;
Then we'll to Rome.—Come, Dolabella; see
High honour in this great solemnity. [Exeunt Cæsar and his Party. Scene 6 SCENE—A Street in Alexandria. Enter Proculeius, with an Officer, and a Company of Soldiers.

Pro.
Halt. We must here abide, till Dolabella
Arrive, to tell us how we may proceed,
In the interment of Mark Antony;
Lo! in good time, he comes. Enter Dolabella.

Dol.
Well met, my friends,—
If well we meet upon a cause so mournful.

Pro.
Antony was your friend.

Dol.
He was;—none, once,
So dear to me as Antony;—not Cæsar;
We were so closed within each other's bosoms
The rivets were not found that join'd us fast.
War sunder'd us!—Oh, in his happier day,
His legs bestrid the ocean;—his rear'd arm
Crested the world;—his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, unto his friends;
But when he meant to quail, and strike the orb,
He was as rattling thunder.

Proc.
How stands the order for our march?

Dol.
E'en thus:—
Attend the ceremony, as to serve,
Rather than to command, its order.—They

Who serv'd Mark Antony, e'en to the last,
The best will honour him.—Our Cæsar's troops
Must be subservient;—Antony's adherents
Must fix the order of procession, and
Admit us, or reject us, at their will.

Pro.
I am instructed.

Dol.
I shall go with you.

Pro.
Now, soldiers, march! (Soldiers and their Leaders march out.) Scene 7 SCENE—Alexandria. A GRAND FUNERAL PROCESSION: DURING WHICH IS SUNG THE FOLLOWING EPICEDIUM: