&wlquo;Cleo.
&wlquo;Give me my Robe, put on my Crown; I have
&wlquo;Immortal Longings in me. Now no more
&wlquo;The juice of Ægypt's grape shall moist this lip.
&wlquo;Yare, yare, good Iras; quick—methinks, I hear
&wlquo;Antony call, I see him rouse himself
&wlquo;To praise my noble act. I hear him mock
&wlquo;The luck of Cæsar, which the Gods give men
&wlquo;T' excuse their after-wrath. Husband, I come;
&wlquo;Now to that name my courage prove my title!
&wlquo;I am fire, and air; my other elements
&wlquo;I give to baser life. So—have you done?
&wlquo;Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
&wlquo;Farewel, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewel. [Applying the asp.
&wlquo;Have I the aspick in my lips? dost fall? [To Iras.
&wlquo;If thou and nature can so gently part,
&wlquo;The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
&wlquo;Which hurts, and is desir'd. Dost thou lye still?
&wlquo;If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world,
&wlquo;It is not worth leave taking.&wrquo; [Iras dies.

Char.
Dissolve, thick Cloud, and rain, that I may say,
The Gods themselves do weep.

Cleo.
This proves me base—
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss,
Which is my heav'n to have. &wlquo;Come, mortal wretch,
&wlquo;With thy sharp teeth ^{4 note}this knot intrinsicate [To the serpent.
&wlquo;Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool,

&wlquo;Be angry, and dispatch.&wrquo; Oh, could'st thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Cæsar ass,
Unpolicied!

Char.
O eastern star!

&plquo;Cleo.
&plquo;Peace, peace!
&plquo;Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
&plquo;That sucks the nurse asleep?&prquo;

Char.
O break! O break?

Cleo.
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,
O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too. [Applying another Asp to her Arm.
What should I stay— [Dies.

Char.
In this wild world? so fare thee well:
Now, boast thee, Death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd—Downy windows, close;
And golden Phœbus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! your Crown's awry;
I'll mend it, and then play— Enter the Guard, rushing in.

1 Guard.
Where's the Queen;

Char.
Speak softly, wake her not.

1 Guard.
Cæsar hath sent— [Charmian applies the Asp.

Char.
Too slow a messenger.
Oh, come apace, dispatch, I partly feel thee.

1 Guard.
Approach, ho! all's not well. Cæsar's beguil'd.

2 Guard.
There's Dolabella sent from Cæsar; call him.

1 Guard.
What work is here, Charmian? is this well done?

Char.
It is well done, and fitting for a Princess
Descended of so many royal Kings.
Ah, soldiers!— [Charmian dies.

Enter Dolabella.

Dol.
How goes it here?

2 Guard.
All dead!

Dol.
Cæsar, thy thoughts
Touch their effects in this; thy self art coming
To see perform'd the dreaded act, which thou
So sought'st to hinder. Enter Cæsar and Attendants.

All.
Make way there, make way for Cæsar.

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

Cæs.
Bravest at last:
She levell'd at our purpose, and, being royal,
Took her own way. The manner of their deaths?—
I do not see them bleed.

Dol.
Who was last with them?

1 Guard.
A simple countryman, that brought her figs:
This was his basket.

Cæs.
Poison'd then!

1 Gent.
Oh Cæsar!
This Charmian liv'd but now, she stood and spake:
I found her trimming up the diadem
On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood,
And on the sudden dropt.

Cæs.
Oh noble weakness!
If they had swallow'd poison, 'twould appear
By external swelling; but she looks like sleep;
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace.

Dol.
Here, on her breast,
There is a vent of blood, and something blown:
The like is on her arm.

1 Guard.
This is an aspick's trail;
And these fig-leaves have slime upon them, such
As th' aspick leaves upon the caves of Nile.

Cæs.
Most probable,
That so she dy'd; for her physician tells me,
She has pursu'd conclusions infinite
Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed,
And bear her women from the monument:
She shall be buried by her Antony.
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it,
A pair so famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them; and their story is
No less in pity, than his glory, which
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall,
In solemn shew, attend this funeral;
And then to Rome: come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity. [Exeunt omnes.

CYMBELINE A TRAGEDY.

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