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.

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