ALL FOR LOVE OR THE WORLD WELL LOST_MODERN ENGLISH DRAMA

ALL FOR LOVE OR THE WORLD WELL LOST

A TRAGEDY

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ;

MARK ANTONY.ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch.

VENTIDIUS, his General.SERAPION, Priest of Isis.

DOLABELLA, his Friend.MYRIS, another Priest.

Servants to Antony.

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt.  CHARMION,

OCTAVIA, Antony's Wife.  IRAS,   Cleopatra's Maid.

Antony's two little Daughters.

SCENE.—ALEXANDRIA.

ACT I

SCENE I.—The Temple of Isis

Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis

Serapion

PORTENTS and prodigies have grown so frequent,

That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile

Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent

So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce,

That the wild deluge overtook the haste

Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts

Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew

On the utmost margin of the water-mark.

Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward,

It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:

Here monstrous phocæ panted on the shore;

Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails,

Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them,

Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud,

Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.

Enter ALEXAS behind them

MYR. Avert these omens, Heaven!

SERAP. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one,

In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked,

A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,

Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt;

The iron wicket, that defends the vault,

Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,

Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead.

From out each monument, in order placed,

An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last

Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans

Then followed, and a lamentable voice

Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back,

My shaking knees against each other knocked;

On the cold pavement down I fell entranced,

And so unfinished left the horrid scene.

ALEX. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story,

［Showing himself.

To frighten our Egyptian boys withal,

And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?

SERAP. My lord, I saw you not,

Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what

I uttered was most true.

ALEX. A foolish dream,

Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,

And holy luxury.

SERAP. I know my duty:

This goes no further.

ALEX. 'Tis not fit it should;

Nor would the times now bear it, were it true.

All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp

Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm

Just breaking on our heads.

SERAP. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony;

But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.

MYR. Why then does Antony dream out his hours,

And tempts not fortune for a noble day,

Which might redeem what Actium lost?

ALEX. He thinks 'tis past recovery.

SERAP. Yet the foe

Seems not to press the siege.

ALEX. Oh, there's the wonder.

Mæcenas and Agrippa, who can most

With Cæsar, are his foes. His wife Octavia,

Driven from his house, solicits her revenge;

And Dolabella, who was once his friend,

Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin:

Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

SERAP. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past,

Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra;

But here, in Isis' temple, lives retired,

And makes his heart a prey to black despair.

ALEX. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence

To cure his mind of love.

SERAP. If he be vanquished,

Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be

A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests

Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil.

While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria

Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat),

And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,

Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

ALEX. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature,

Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish,—perish

Each by the other's sword; But, since our will

Is lamely followed by our power, we must

Depend on one; with him to rise or fall.

SERAP. How stands the queen affected?

ALEX. Oh, she dotes,

She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man,

And winds herself about his mighty ruins;

Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,

This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands,

She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain—

This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,

And makes me use all means to keep him here.

Whom I could wish divided from her arms,

Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know

The state of things; no more of your ill omens

And black prognostics; labour to confirm

The people's hearts.

Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S

SERAP. These Romans will o'erhear us.

But who's that stranger? By his warlike port,

His fierce demeanour, and erected look,

He's of no vulgar note.

ALEX. Oh, 'tis Ventidius,

Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East,

Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered.

When Antony returned from Syria last,

He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

SERAP. You seem to know him well.

ALEX. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first,

When Cleopatra there met Antony:

A mortal foe was to us, and Egypt.

But,—let me witness to the worth I hate,—

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 I know not what of ill

To our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better;

And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here,

And what's our present work.

［They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front.

VENT. Not see him; say you?

I say, I must, and will.

GENT. He has commanded,

On pain of death, none should approach his presence.

VENT. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits,

Give him new life.

GENT. He sees not Cleopatra.

VENT. Would he had never seen her!

GENT. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use

Of anything, but thought; or if he talks,

'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving:

Then he defies the world, and bids it pass,

Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud

The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth

Into a scornful smile, and cries, “Take all,

The world's not worth my care.”

VENT. Just, just his nature.

Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow

For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,

And bounds into a vice, that bears him far

From his first course, and plunges him in ills:

But, when his danger makes him find his faults,

Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,

He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,

Judging himself with malice to himself,

And not forgiving what as man he did,

Because his other parts are more than man.—

He must not thus be lost.

［ALEXAS and the Priests come forward.

ALEX. You have your full instructions, now advance,

Proclaim your orders loudly.

SERAP. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command.

Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;

To pomp and triumphs give this happy day,

That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's.

Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live!

Be this the general voice sent up to heaven

And every public place repeat this echo.

VENT. Fine pageantry!     ［Aside.

SERAP. Set out before your doors

The images of all your sleeping fathers,

With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts,

And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests

Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine,

And call the gods to join with you in gladness.

VENT. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy!

Can they be friends of Antony, who revel

When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame,

You Romans, your great grandsires' images,

For fear their souls should animate their marbles,

To blush at their degenerate progeny.

ALEX. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony,

Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven

Laboured for him, when each propitious star

Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour

And shed his better influence. Her own birthday

Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate,

That passed obscurely by.

VENT. Would it had slept,

Divided far from his; till some remote

And future age had called it out, to ruin

Some other prince, not him!

ALEX. Your emperor,

Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than

To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

VENT. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest!

He knows him not his executioner.

Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love,

Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,

And made perdition pleasing: She has left him

The blank of what he was.

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him.

Can any Roman see, and know him now,

Thus altered from the lord of half mankind,

Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy,

Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,

And crampt within a corner of the world?

O Antony!

Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends!

Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God!

Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them,

As bounty were thy being! rough in battle,

As the first Romans when they went to war;

Yet after victory more pitiful

Than all their praying virgins left at home!

ALEX. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues,

His truth to her who loves him.

VENT. Would I could not!

But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee!

Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine,

Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen,

Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms.

Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone,

Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets,

You dare not fight for Antony; go pray

And keep your cowards' holiday in temples.

［Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.

Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY

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

1 GENT. I dare not disobey him.

［Going out with the other.

VENT. 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, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks

ANT. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it

With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.

Why was I raised the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward,

To be trod out by Cæsar?

VENT. ［aside］. On my soul,

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

ANT. Count thy gains.

Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this?

Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth

Has starved thy wanting age.

VENT. How sorrow shakes him!   ［Aside.

So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,

And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

［ANTONY having thrown himself down.

Lie there, 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 ashes; then Octavia

(For Cleopatra will not live to see it),

Octavia then will have thee all her own,

And bear thee in her widowed 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.

ANT. Give me some music, look that it be sad.

I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,

And burst myself with sighing.—［Soft music.

'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy

I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,

I lean my head upon the mossy bark,

And look just of a piece as I grew from it;

My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,

Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook

Runs at my foot.

VENT. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

ANT. The herd come jumping by me,

And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,

And take me for their fellow-citizen.

More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts.

［Soft music again.

VENT. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.

［Stands before him.

ANT. ［starting up］. Art thou Ventidius?

VENT. Are you Antony?

I'm liker what I was, than you to him

I left you last.

ANT. I'm angry.

VENT. So am I.

ANT. I would be private: leave me.

VENT. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.

ANT. Will not leave me!

Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

VENT. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven:

If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin:

You're all that's good, and god-like.

ANT. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me then?

VENT. '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 satisfied?

For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;

And, if a foe, too much.

VENT. 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 heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down

The furrows of his cheeks.—Stop them, Ventidius,

Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame,

That caused them, full before me.

VENT. 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!

VENT. Emperor.

ANT. Emperor! Why, that's the style 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!—

VENT. 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.—

VENT. Out with it; give it vent.

ANT. Urge not my shame.

I lost a battle,—

VENT. 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 fairly.

But Antony—

VENT. Nay, stop not.

ANT. Antony—

Well, thou wilt have it,—like a coward, fled,

Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.

Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.

I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

VENT. I did.

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

VENT. Yes, and a brave one! but—

ANT. I know thy meaning.

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced

The name of soldier, with inglorious ease.

In the full vintage of my flowing honours,

Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands.

Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,

And purple greatness met my ripened years.

When first I came to empire, I was borne

On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;

The wish of nations, and the willing world

Received me as its pledge of future peace;

I was so great, so happy, so beloved,

Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,

And worked against my fortune, child her from me.

And returned her loose; yet still she came again.

My careless days, and my luxurious nights,

At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,

Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier,

To curse this madman, this industrious fool,

Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee, curse me.

VENT. No.

ANT. Why?

VENT. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;

And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

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

Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.

ANT. I know thou would'st.

VENT. I will.

ANT. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

VENT. You laugh.

ANT. I do, to see officious love,

Give cordials to the dead.

VENT. You would be lost, then?

ANT. I am.

VENT. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

ANT. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate,

Without just cause? No, when I found all lost

Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do

So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

VENT. Cæsar thinks not so;

Hell' thank you for the gift he could not take.

You would be killed like Tully, would you? do,

Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

ANT. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

VENT. 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.

VENT. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours

In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,

And long to call you chief: By painful journeys

I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,

Down form the Parthian marches to the Nile.

'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them.

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates

Than you trim bands can buy.

ANT. Where left you them?

VENT. I said in Lower Syria.

ANT. Bring them hither;

There may be life in these.

VENT. They will not come.

ANT. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids,

To double my despair? They're mutinous.

VENT. Most firm and loyal.

ANT. Yet they will not march

To succour me. O trifler!

VENT. They petition

You would make haste to head them.

ANT. I'm besieged.

VENT. 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 used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

VENT. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

ANT. What was't they said?

VENT. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer,

And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms,

Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,

You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,

And calls this diamond such or such a tax;

Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

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.

VENT. Behold, you Powers,

To whom you have intrusted humankind!

See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman!

I think the gods are Antonies, and give,

Like prodigals, this nether world away

To none but wasteful hands.

ANT. You grow presumptuous.

VENT. 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 honesty, hast vented

The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall.

O that thou wert my equal; great in arms

As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee

Without a stain to honour!

VENT. You may kill me;

You have done more already,—called me traitor.

ANT. Art thou not one?

VENT. For showing 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 hindered me to have led my conquering eagles

To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been

A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,

And not have been so called.

ANT. Forgive me, soldier;

I've been too passionate.

VENT. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you: Kill me, sir,

Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness

Has left your sword no work.

ANT. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage: Pr'ythee, forgive me.

Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery

Of what I would not hear?

VENT. No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used,

Nor durst another man have ventured it;

But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes,

Were sure the chief and best of human race,

Framed in the very pride and boast of nature;

So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered

At their own skill, and cried—A lucky hit

Has mended our design. Their envy hindered,

Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,

When Heaven would work for ostentation's sake

To copy out again.

ANT. But Cleopatra—

Go on; for I can bear it now.

VENT. No more.

ANT. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st;

Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me.

VENT. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word!

May I believe you love me? Speak again.

ANT. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this.

［Hugging him.

Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve them;

And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt;

Lead me to victory! thou know'st the way.

VENT. And, will you leave this—

ANT. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love

Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour;

But I will leave her.

VENT. 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 troops, that beat

The Parthians, cry aloud—Come, follow me!

VENT. Oh, 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 the exchange.

ANT. O Cleopatra!

VENT. 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.

VENT. Methinks, you breathe

Another soul: Your looks are more divine;

You speak a hero, and you move a god.

ANT. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,

And mans each part about me: Once again,

That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;

That eagerness with which I darted upward

To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill

Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears

Sung round my head, and planted on my shield;

I won the trenches, while my foremost men

Lagged on the plain below.

VENT. Ye gods, ye gods,

For such another honour!

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 them; mow them out a passage,

And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield,

Begin the noble harvest of the field.［Exeunt.

ACT II

SCENE I

Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS and ALEXAS

CLEO. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn?

Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go.

ALEX. He goes to fight for you.

CLEO. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight:

Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost,

And all my hopes destroyed.

ALEX. Does this weak passion

Become a mighty queen?

CLEO. I am no queen:

Is this to be a queen, to be besieged

By yon insulting Roman, and to wait

Each hour the victor's chain? These ills are small:

For Antony is lost, and I can mourn

For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius,

I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands;

I'm fit to be a captive: Antony

Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave.

IRAS. Call reason to assist you.

CLEO. I have none,

And none would have: My love's a noble madness,

Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow

Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:

But I have loved with such transcendent passion,

I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,

And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud

'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me now

Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me?

Sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured,

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.

CLEO. Never, never, Iras.

He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone,

Leaves a faint image of possession still.

ALEX. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful.

CLEO. I cannot: If I could, those thoughts were vain.

Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be,

I still must love him.

Enter CHARMION

Now, what news, my Charmion?

Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me?

Am I to live, or die?—nay, do I live?

Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer,

Fate took the word, and then I lived or died.

CHAR. I found him, madam—

CLEO. A long speech preparing?

If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me,

For never was more need.

IRAS. I know he loves you.

CLEO. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so,

Before her tongue could speak it: Now she studies,

To soften what he said; but give me death,

Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised,

And in the words he spoke.

CHAR. I found him, then,

Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues;

So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood,

While awfully he cast his eyes about,

And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed:

Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased.

When he beheld me struggling in the crowd,

He blushed, and bade make way.

ALEX. There's comfort yet.

CHAR. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage

Severely, as he meant to frown me back,

And sullenly gave place: I told my message,

Just as you gave it, broken and disordered;

I numbered in it all your sighs and tears,

And while I moved your pitiful request,

That you but only begged a last farewell,

He fetched an inward groan; and every time

I named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking,

But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down:

He seemed not now that awful Antony,

Who shook and armed assembly with his nod;

But, making show as he would rub his eyes,

Disguised and blotted out a falling tear.

CLEO. Did he then weep? And was I worth a tear?

If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing,

Tell me no more, but let me die contented.

CHAR. He bid me say,—He knew himself so well,

He could deny you nothing, if he saw you;

And therefore—

CLEO. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me?

CHAR. And therefore begged you not to use a power,

Which he could ill resist; yet he should ever

Respect you, as he ought.

CLEO. Is that a word

For Antony to use to Cleopatra?

O that faint word, respect! how I disdain it!

Disdain myself, for loving after it!

He should have kept that word for cold Octavia.

Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing,

That dull, insipid lump, without desires,

And without power to give them?

ALEX. You misjudge;

You see through love, and that deludes your sight;

As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water:

But I, who bear my reason undisturbed,

Can see this Antony, this dreaded man,

A fearful slave, who fain would run away,

And shuns his master's eyes: If you pursue him,

My life on't, he still drags a chain along.

That needs must clog his flight.

CLEO. Could I believe thee!—

ALEX. By every circumstance I know he loves.

True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour;

Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out

Many a long look for succour.

CLEO. He sends word,

He fears to see my face.

ALEX. And would you more?

He shows his weakness who declines the combat,

And you must urge your fortune. Could he speak

More plainly? To my ears, the message sounds—

Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come;

Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant:

See me, and give me a pretence to leave him!—

I hear his trumpets. This way he must pass.

Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first,

That he may bend more easy.

CLEO. You shall rule me;

But all, I fear, in vain.    ［Exit with CHARMION and IRAS.

ALEX. I fear so too;

Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold;

But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it!

［Withdraws.

Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then

enter ANTONY with VENTIDIUS, followed by other Commanders

ANT. Octavius is the minion of blind chance,

But holds from virtue nothing.

VENT. Has he courage?

ANT. But just enough to season him from coward.

Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge,

The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures

(As in Illyria once, they say, he did,

To storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose;

When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him;

And then he lives on that for seven years after;

But, at a close revenge he never fails.

VENT. I heard you challenged him.

ANT. I did, Ventidius.

What think'st thou was his answer? 'Twas so tame!—

He said, he had more ways than one to die;

I had not.

VENT. Poor!

ANT. He has more ways than one;

But he would choose them all before that one.

VENT. He first would choose an ague, or a fever.

ANT. No; it must be an ague, not a fever;

He Has not warmth enough to die by that.

VENT. Or old age and a bed.

ANT. Ay, there's his choice,

He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink,

And crawl the utmost verge of life.

O Hercules! Why should a man like this,

Who dares not trust his fate for one great action,

Be all the care of Heaven? Why should he lord it

O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one

Is braver than himself?

VENT. You conquered for him:

Philippi knows it; there you shared with him

That empire, which your sword made all your own.

ANT. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings

I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring,

And now he mounts above me.

Good heavens, is this,—is this the man who braves me?

Who bids my age make way? Drives me before him,

To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish?

VENT. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all.

ANT. Then give the word to march:

I long to leave this prison of a town,

To join thy legions; and, in open field,

Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer.

Enter ALEXAS

ALEX. Great emperor,

In mighty arms renowned above mankind,

But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god;

This message sends the mournful Cleopatra

To her departing lord.

VENT. Smooth sycophant!

ALEX. A thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers,

Millions of blessings wait you to the wars;

Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too,

And would have sent

As many dear embraces to your arms,

As many parting kisses to your lips;

But those, she fears, have wearied you already.

VENT. ［aside］. False crocodile!

ALEX. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her;

That were a wish too mighty for her hopes,

Too presuming

For her low fortune, and your ebbing love;

That were a wish for her more prosperous days,

Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness.

ANT.［aside］. Well, I must man it out:—What would the queen?

ALEX. First, to these noble warriors, who attend

Your daring courage in the chase of fame,—

Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,—

She humbly recommends all she holds dear,

All her own cares and fears,—the care of you.

VENT. Yes, witness Actium.

ANT. Let him speak, Ventidius.

ALEX. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward,

With ardour too heroic, on his foes,

Fall down, as she would do, before his feet;

Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death:

Tell him, this god is not invulnerable;

That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him;

And, that you may remember her petition,

She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn,

Which, at your wished return, she will redeem［Gives jewels to the Commanders.

With all the wealth of Egypt:

This to the great Ventidius she presents,

Whom she can never count her enemy,

Because he loves her lord.

VENT. Tell her, I'll none on't;

I'm not ashamed of honest poverty;

Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe

Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see

These and the rest of all her sparkling store,

Where they shall more deservingly be placed.

ANT. And who must wear them then?

VENT. The wronged Octavia.

ANT. You might have spared that word.

VENT. And he that bribe.

ANT. But have I no remembrance?

ALEX. Yes, a dear one;

Your slave the queen—

ANT. My mistress.

ALEX. Then your mistress;

Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul,

But that you had long since; she humbly begs

This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts,

The emblems of her own, may bind your arm.

［Presenting a bracelet.

VENT. Now, my best lord,—in honour's name, I ask you,

For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,—

Touch not these poisoned gifts,

Infected by the sender; touch them not;

Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them,

And more than aconite has dipt the silk.

ANT. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius:

A lady's favours may be worn with honour.

What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul,

When I lie pensive in my tent alone,

“Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights,

To tell these pretty beads upon my arm,

To count for every one a soft embrace,

A melting kiss at such and such a time:

And now and then the fury of her love,

When——And what harm's in this?

ALEX. None, none, my lord,

But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever.

ANT. ［going to tie it］. We soldiers are so awkward—help me tie it.

ALEX. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward

In these affairs: so are all men indeed:

Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak?

ANT. Yes, freely.

ALEX. Then, my lord, fair hands alone

Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can.

VENT. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you.

You will not see her?

［ALEXAS whispers an Attendant, who goes out.

ANT. But to take my leave.

VENT. Then I have washed an Æthiop. You're undone;

Y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed:

Her eyes do Cæsar's work.

ANT. You fear too soon.

I'm constant to myself: I know my strength;

And yet she shall not think me barbarous neither

Born in the depths of Afric: I am a Roman,

Bred in the rules of soft humanity.

A guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell.

VENT. You do not know

How weak you are to her, how much an infant:

You are not proof against a smile, or glance:

A sigh will quite disarm you.

ANT. See, she comes!

Now you shall find your error.—Gods. I thank you:

I formed the danger greater than it was,

And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened.

VENT. Mark the end yet.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

ANT. Well, madam, we are met.

CLEO. Is this a meeting?

Then, we must part?

ANT. We must.

CLEO. Who says we must?

ANT. Our own hard fates.

CLEO. We make those fates ourselves.

ANT. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other,

Into our mutual ruin.

CLEO. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes;

I have no friends in heaven; and all the world,

As 'twere the business of mankind to part us,

Is armed against my love: even you yourself

Join with the rest; you, you are armed against me.

ANT. I will be justified 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.

CLEO. You command me,

And I am dumb.

VENT. I like this well; he shows authority.

ANT. That I derive my ruin

From you alone—

CLEO. O heavens! I ruin you!

ANT. You promised me your silence, and you break it

Ere I have scarce begun.

CLEO. Well, I obey you.

ANT. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt.

Ere Cæsar saw your eyes, you gave me love,

And were too young to know it; that I settled

Your father in his throne, was for your sake;

I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen.

Cæsar stept in, and, with a greedy hand,

Plucked 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;

But, I deserved you first, though he enjoyed you.

When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia,

An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you.

CLEO. I cleared myself——

ANT. Again you break your promise.

I loved you still, and took your weak excuses,

Took you into my bosom, stained by Cæsar,

And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you,

And hid me from the business of the world,

Shut out inquiring nations from my sight,

To give whole years to you.

VENT. Yes, to your shame be't spoken. ［Aside

ANT. How I loved.

Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours,

That danced away with down upon your feet,

As all your business were to count my passion!

One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;

Another came, and still 'twas only love:

The suns were wearied out with looking on,

And I untired with loving.

I saw you every day, and all the day;

And every day was still but as the first,

So eager was I still to see you more.

VENT. 'Tis all too true.

ANT. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,

(As she indeed had reason) raised a war

In Italy, to call me back.

VENT. But yet

You went not.

ANT. While within your arms I lay,

The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour,

And left me scarce a grasp—I thank your love for't.

VENT. Well pushed: that last was home.

CLEO. Yet may I speak?

ANT. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not.

Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died,

(Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died);

To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,

This Cæsar's sister; in her pride of youth,

And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady,

Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her.

You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons:

This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours.

I would have fought by land, where I was stronger

You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea,

Forsook me fighting; and (O stain to honour!

O lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled;

But fled to follow you.

VENT. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails!

And, to appear magnificent in flight,

Drew half our strength away.

ANT. All this you caused.

And, would you multiply more ruins on me?

This honest man, my best, my only friend,

Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes;

Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits.

And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes

To seize them too. If you have aught to answer,

Now speak, you have free leave.

ALEX. ［aside］. She stands confounded:

Despair is in her eye as.

VENT. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage:

Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions;

'Tis like they shall be sold.

CLEO. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,

Already have condemned me? Shall I bring

The love you bore me for my advocate?

That now is turned against me, that destroys me;

For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten;

But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord

To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty.

But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you,

That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes,

Into my faults, severe to my destruction,

And watching all advantages with care,

That serve to make me wretched? Speak, my lord,

For I end here. Though I deserved this usage,

Was it like you to give it?

ANT. Oh, you wrong me,

To think I sought this parting, or desired

To accuse you more than what will clear myself,

And justify this breach.

CLEO. Thus low I thank you;

And, since my innocence will not offend,

I shall not blush to own it.

VENT. After this,

I think she'll blush at nothing.

CLEO. You seem grieved

(And therein you are kind) that Cæsar first

Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better:

I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you;

For, had I first been yours, it would have saved

My second choice: I never had been his,

And ne'er had been but yours. But Cæsar first,

You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord:

He first possessed my person; you, my love:

Cæsar loved me; but I loved Antony.

If I endured him after, 'twas because

I judged it due to the first name of men;

And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant,

What he would take by force.

VENT. O Syren! Syren!

Yet grant that all the love she boast were true,

Has she not ruined you? I still urge that,

The fatal consequence.

CLEO. The consequence indeed—

For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe,

To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you,

And kept you far from an uneasy wife,—

Such Fulvia was.

Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;—

And, can you blame me to receive that love,

Which quitted such desert, for worthless me?

How often have I wished some other Cæsar,

Great as the first, and as the second young,

Would court my love, to be refused for you!

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

CELO. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled

To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not.

I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear;

Would I had been a man, not to have feared!

For none would then have envied me your friendship,

Who envy me your love.

ANT. We are both unhappy:

If nothing else, yet our ill fortune part us.

Speak; would you have me perish by my stay?

CLEO. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go;

If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish—

'Tis a hard word—but stay.

VENT. See now the effects of her so boasted love!

She strives to drag you down to ruin with her;

But, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon

Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore,

And never look behind!

CLEO. Then judge my love by this.［Giving ANTONY a writing.

Could I have borne

A life or death, a happiness or woe,

From yours divided, this had given me means.

ANT. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius!

I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand,

Young as it was, that led the way to mine,

And left me but the second place in murder.—

See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt,

And joins all Syria to it, as a present;

So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes,

And join her arms with his.

CLEO. And yet you leave me!

You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you,

Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom;

That is a trifle;

For I could part with life, with anything,

But only you. Oh, let me die but with you!

Is that a hard request?

ANT. Next living with you,

'Tis all that Heaven can give

ALEX. He melts; we conquer.［Aside.

CLEO. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence;

Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these

Weak arms to hold you here.［Takes his hand.

Go; leave me, soldier

(For you're no more a lover): leave me dying:

Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom,

And, when your march begins, let one run after,

Breathless almost for joy, and cry—She's dead.

The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh,

And muster all your Roman gravity:

Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up,

As I had never been.

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

CLEO. What is't for me then,

A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover?—

Here let me breathe my last: envy me not

This minute in your arms: I'll die apace,

As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble.

ANT. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature

Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven,

And fall the skies, to crush the nether world!

My eyes, my soul, my all!［Embraces her.

VENT. And what's this toy.

In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?

ANT. What is't, Ventidius?—it outweighs them all;

Why, we have more than conquered Cæsar now:

My queen's not only innocent, but loves me.

This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin!

“But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste

Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore,

And never look behind!”

Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,

And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

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

ANT. Go! whither? Go from all that's excellent?

Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,

That I should go from her, who sets my love

Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods,

Give to your boy, your Cæsar,

This rattle of a globe to play withal,

This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off:

I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

CLEO. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy,

That I shall do some wild extravagance

Of love, in public; and the foolish world,

Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.

VENT. O women! women! women! all the gods

Have not such power of doing good to man,

As you of doing harm.［Exit.

ANT. Our men are armed:—

Unbar the gate that looks to Cæsar's camp:

I would revenge the treachery he meant me;

And long security makes conquest easy.

I'm eager to return before I go;

For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick

On my remembrance.—How I long for night!

That both the sweets of mutual love may try,

And triumph once o'er Cæsar ere we die.［Exeunt.

ACT III

SCENE I

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

ANT. I thought how those white arms would fold me in,

And strain me close, and melt me into love;

So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards,

And added all my strength to every blow.

CLEO. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms!

You've been too long away from my embraces;

But, when I have you fast, and all my own,

With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs,

I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you,

And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

ANT. My brighter Venus!

CLEO. O my greater Mars!

ANT. Thou join'st us well, my love!

Suppose me come from the Phlegræan plains,

Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword,

And mountain-tops paired off each other blow,

To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess!

Let Cæsar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan,

In thy embraces I would be beheld

By heaven and earth at once;

And make their envy what they meant their sport?

Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,

With awful state, regardless of their frowns,

As their superior gods.

There's no satiety of love in thee:

Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring

Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,

And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;

And I grow rich by giving.

Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart

ALEX. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes!

He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs;

But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on,

As envying your success.

ANT. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me:

He never flattered me in any vice,

But awes me with his virtue: even this minute

Methinks, he has a right of chiding me.

Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence;

It checks too strong upon me.［Exeunt the rest.

［As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.

VENT. Emperor!

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

VENT. But this one hearing, emperor.

ANT. Let go

My robe; or, by my father Hercules—

VENT. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater,

I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

ANT. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here,

And I'll return.［Exit.

VENT. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him;

I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;

And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him:

His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes,

As would confound their choice to punish one,

And not reward the other.

Enter ANTONY

ANT. We can conquer,

You see, without your aid.

We have dislodged their troops;

They look on us at distance, and, like curs

Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off,

And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.

Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,

Lie breathless on the plain.

VENT. 'Tis well; and he,

Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more.

Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain

An easier peace, while Cæsar doubts the chance

Of arms—

ANT. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius!

The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace;

His malice is considerable in advantage.

Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch,

He kills, and keeps his temper.

VENT. Have you no friend

In all his army, who has power to move him?

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.

VENT. Fain I would find some other.

ANT. Thank thy love.

Some four or five such victories as this

Will save thy further pains.

VENT. Expect no more; Cæsar is on his guard:

I know, sir, you have conquered against odds;

But still you draw supplies from one poor town,

And of Egyptians: he has all the world,

And, at his beck, nations come pouring in,

To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again.

ANT. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search

For foreign aids?—to hunt my memory,

And range all o'er a waste and barren place,

To find a friend? The wretched have no friends.

Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome,

Whom Cæsar loves beyond the love of women:

He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax,

From that hard rugged image melt him down,

And mould him in what softer form he pleased.

VENT. Him would I see; that man, of all the world;

Just such a one we want.

ANT. He love me too;

I was his soul; he lived not but in me:

We were so closed within each other's breasts,

The rivets were not found, that joined us first.

That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt,

As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost;

We were one mass; we could not give or take,

But from the same; for he was I, I he.

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

ANT. After this,

I need not tell his name;—'twas Dolabella.

VENT. He's now in 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 feared he loved her: he confessed,

He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled;

For 'twere impossible that two, so one,

Should not have loved the same. When he departed,

He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

VENT. It argues, that he loved you more than her,

Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous,

And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you.

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

VENT. Perhaps

He has thus long been labouring for your peace.

ANT. Would he were here!

VENT. Would you believe he loved you?

I read your answer in your eyes, you would.

Not to conceal it longer, he has sent

A messenger from Cæsar's camp, with letters.

ANT. Let him appear

VENT. I'll bring him instantly.

［Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with

DOLABELLA.

ANT. 'Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship!［Runs to embrace him.

Art thou returned at last, my better half?

Come, give me all myself!

Let me not live,

If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,

Was ever half so fond.

DOLA. I must be silent, for my soul is busy

About a nobler work; she's new come home,

Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er

Each room, a stranger to her own, to look

If all be safe.

ANT. Thou hast what's left of me;

For I am now so sunk from what I was,

Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark.

The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,

Are all dried up, or take another course:

What I have left is from my native spring;

I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,

And lifts me to my banks.

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

ANT. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all.

If I had any joy when thou wert absent,

I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed

Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella!

Thou has beheld me other than I am.

Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled

With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me?

With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,

To worship my uprising?—menial kings

Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,

Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes,

And, at my least command, all started out,

Like racers to the goal.

DOLA. Slaves to your fortune.

ANT. Fortune is Cæsar's now; and what am I?

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

ANT. Is this friendly done?

DOLA. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him;

Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide;

Why am I else your friend?

ANT. Take heed, young man,

How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes,

And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember,

When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,

As accessary to thy brother's death?

DOLA. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day,

And still the blush hangs here.

ANT. To clear herself,

For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.

Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed,

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold;

The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:

Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;

Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

DOLA. No more; I would not hear it.

ANT. Oh, you must!

She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,

And cast a look so languishingly sweet,

As if, secure of all beholder's hearts,

Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,

Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds,

That played about her face. But if she smiled

A darting glory seemed to blazed abroad,

That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,

But hung upon the object: To soft flutes

The silver oars kept time; and while they played,

The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;

And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more;

For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds

Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath

To give their welcome voice.

Then, Dolabella, where was then they soul?

Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder?

Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes

And whisper in my ear—Oh, tell her not

That I accused her with my brother's death?

DOLA. And should my weakness be a plea for yours?

Mine was an age when love might be excused,

When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth

Made it a debt to nature. Yours—

VENT. Speak boldly.

Yours, he would say, in your declining age,

When no more heat was left but what you forced,

When all the sap was needful for the trunk,

When it went down, then you constrained the course,

And robbed from nature, to supply desire;

In you (I would not use so harsh a word)

'Tis but plain dotage.

ANT. Ha!

DOLA. 'Twas urged too home.—

But yet the loss was private, that I made;

'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions;

I had no world to lose, no people's love.

ANT. This from a friend?

DOLA. Yes, Antony, a true one;

A friend so tender, that each word I speak

Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear.

Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide!

To Cæsar I excuse you.

ANT. O ye gods!

Have I then lived to be excused to Cæsar?

DOLA. As to your equal.

ANT. Well, he's but my equal:

While I wear this he never shall be more.

DOLA. I bring conditions from him.

ANT. Are they noble?

Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he

Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour

Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him;

For nature meant him from an usurer:

He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.

VENT. Then, granting this,

What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper

To honourable terms?

ANT. I was my Dolabella, or some god.

DOLA. Nor I, nor yet Mæcenas, nor Agrippa:

They were your enemies; and I, a friend,

Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed.

ANT. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man,

Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour;

Let me but see his face.

VENT. That task is mine,

And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing.［Exit VENT.

DOLA. You'll remember

To whom you stand obliged?

ANT. When I forget it

Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse.

My queen shall thank him too,

DOLA. I fear she will not.

ANT. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella!

Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?

DOLA. I would not see her lost.

ANT. When I forsake her,

Leave me my better stars! for she has truth

Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her,

At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me;

But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me

For loving her too well. Could I do so?

DOLA. Yes; there's my reason.

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

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

VENT. What, is she poison to you?—a disease?

Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:

Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature

No secret call, no whisper they are yours?

DOLA. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them

With kinder yes. If you confess a man,

Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.

Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,

To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings,

To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out

And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

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

VENT. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown

To Cleopatra's guards.

DOLA. Yet, are you cold?

OCTAV. Thus long I have attended for my welcome;

Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.

Who am I?

ANT. Cæsar's sister.

OCTAV. That's unkind.

Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,

Know, I had still remained in Cæsar's camp:

But your Octavia, your much injured wife,

Though banished from your bed, driven 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 show

My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness:

Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it.［Taking his hand.

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

DOLA. On my soul,

And so she does: she's neither too submissive,

Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean

Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

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

OCTAV. Begged it, my lord?

ANT. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress;

Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

OCTAV. Poorly and basely I could never beg:

Nor could my brother grant.

ANT. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,

Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down

And cry,—Forgive me, Cæsar! Shall I set

A man, my equal, in the place of Jove,

As he could give me being? No; that word,

Forgive, would choke me up,

And die upon my tongue.

DOLA. You shall not need it.

ANT. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,—

My friend too!—to receive some vile conditions.

My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears;

And now I must become her branded slave.

In every peevish mood, she will upbraid

The life she gave: if I but look awry,

She cries—I'll tell my brother.

OCTAV. My hard fortune

Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.

But the conditions I have brought are such,

You need not blush to take: I love your honour,

Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said,

Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.

Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe;

For, though my brother bargains for your love,

Makes me the price and cement of your peace,

I have a soul like yours; I cannot take

Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.

I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;

He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march

To rule the East: I may be adopt at Athens;

No matter where. I never will complain,

But only keep the barren name of wife,

And rid you of the trouble.

VENT. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour!

Both scorn to be obliged.

DOLA. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;

See how he reddens with despite and shame,

To be outdone in generosity!

VENT. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear,

That fain would fall! Apart.

ANT. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise

The greatness of your soul;

But cannot yield to what you have proposed:

For I can ne'er be conquered but by love;

And you do all for duty. You would free me,

And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?

OCTAV. It was, my lord.

ANT. Then I must be obliged

To one who loves me not; who, to herself,

May call me thankless and ungrateful man:—

I'll not endure it; no.

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

OCTAV. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue?

That pride was all I had to bear me up;

That you might think you owed me for your life,

And owed it to my duty, not my love.

I have been injured, and my haughty soul

Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed.

ANT. Therefore you love me not.

OCTAV. Therefore, my lord,

I should not love you.

ANT. Therefore you would leave me?

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

DOLA. Her soul's too great, after such injuries,

To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it.

Her modesty and silence plead her cause.

ANT. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn?

I find a secret yielding in my soul;

But Cleopatra, who would die with me,

Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia;

But does it not plead more for Cleopatra?

VENT. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia;

For Cleopatra, neither.

One would be ruined with you; but she first

Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined,

And yet she would preserve you.

In everything their merits are unequal.

ANT. O my distracted soul!

OCTAV. Sweet Heaven compose it!—

Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you,

Methinks you should accept it. Look on these;

Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected,

As they are mine? Go to him, children, go;

Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him;

For you may speak, and he may own you too,

Without a blush; and so he cannot all

His children: go, I say, and pull him to me,

And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman.

You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms;

And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist:

If he will shake you off, if he will dash you

Against the pavement, you must bear it, children;

For you are mine, and I was born to suffer.［Here the Children go to him, etc.

VENT. Was ever sight so moving?—Emperor!

DOLA. Friend!

OCTAV. Husband!

BOTH CHILD. Father!

ANT. I am vanquished: take me,

Octavia; take me, children: share me all.［Embracing them.

I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves,

And run out much, in riot, from your stock;

But all shall be amended.

OCTAV. O blest hour!

DOLA. O happy change!

VENT. My joy stops at my tongue;

But it has found two channels here for one,

And bubbles out above.

ANT. ［to OCTAV.］. This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt;

Even to thy brother's camp.

OCTAV. All there are yours.

Enter ALEXAS hastily

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

ANT. 'Tis past.—

Octavia, you shall stay this night: To-morrow,

Cæsar and we are one.

［Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the =Children follow.

VENT. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch,

Be sure to be the first; haste forward:

Haste, my dear eunuch, haste.［Exit.

ALEX. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero,

This blunt, unthinking instrument of death,

With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit.

Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy;

The luxury of others robbed my cradle,

And ravished thence the promise of a man.

Cast out from nature, disinherited

Of what her meanest children claim by kind,

Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone.

Had Cleopatra followed my advice,

Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes.

She dies for love; but she has known its joys:

Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys,

Must die, because she loves?

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train

O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes!

Octavia's here.

CLEO. Peace with that raven's note.

I know it too; and now am in

The pangs of death.

ALEX. You are no more a queen;

Egypt is lost.

CLEO. What tell'st thou me of Egypt?

My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!—

O fatal name to Cleopatra's love!

My kisses, my embraces now are hers;

While I—But thou hast seen my rival; speak,

Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair?

Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection

Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made

Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished,

The gods threw by for rubbish.

ALEX. She is indeed a very miracle.

CLEO. Death to my hopes, a miracle!

ALEX. A miracle;［Bowing.

I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam,

You make all wonders cease.

CLEO. I was too rash:

Take this in part of recompense. But, oh!［Giving a ring.

I fear thou flatterest me.

CHAR. She comes! she's here!

IRAS. Fly, madam, Cæsar's sister!

CLEO. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove,

And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes,

Thus would I face my rival.

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

OCTAV. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra;

Your haughty carriage—

CLEO. Shows I am a queen:

Nor need I ask you, who you are.

OCTAV. A Roman:

A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.

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

OCTAV. He was a Roman, till he lost that name,

To be a slave in Egypt; but I come

To free him thence.

CLEO. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno.

When he grew weary of that household clog,

He chose my easier bonds.

OCTAV. I wonder not

Your bonds are easy: you have long been practised

In that lascivious art: He's not the first

For whom you spread your snares: Let Cæsar witness.

CLEO. I loved not Cæsar; 'twas but gratitude

I paid his love: The worst your malice can,

Is but to say the greatest of mankind

Has been my slave. The next, but far above him

In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours,

But whom his love made mine.

OCTAV. I would view nearer［Coming up close to her.

That face, which has so long usurped my right,

To find the inevitable charms, that catch

Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord.

CLEO. Oh, you do well to search; for had you known

But half these charms, you had not lost his heart.

OCTAV. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady,

Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex,

Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments,

That make sin pleasing?

CLEO. You may blush, who want them.

If bounteous nature, if indulgent Heaven

Have given me charms to please the bravest man,

Should I not thank them? Should I be ashamed,

And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me;

And, when I love not him, Heaven change this face

For one like that.

OCTAV. Thou lov'st him not so well.

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

OCTAV. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin.

Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra?

Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra?

At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra.

Who made his children orphans, and poor me

A wretched widow? only Cleopatra.

CLEO. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra.

If you have suffered, I have suffered more.

You bear the specious title of a wife

To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world

To favour it: the world condemns poor me.

For I have lost my honour, lost my fame,

And stained the glory of my royal house,

And all to bear the branded name of mistress.

There wants but life, and that too I would lose

For him I love.

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

CLEO. And 'tis my wish,

Now he is lost for whom alone I lived.

My sight grows dim, and every object dances,

And swims before me, in the maze of death.

My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up;

They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn!

But now she's gone, they faint.

ALEX. Mine have had leisure

To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel,

To ruin her, who else must ruin you.

CLEO. Vain promiser!

Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras.

My grief has weight enough to sink you both.

Conduct me to some solitary chamber,

And draw the curtains round;

Then leave me to myself, to take alone

My fill of grief:

There I till death will his unkindness weep;

As harmless infants moan themselves asleep.［Exeunt.

ACT IV

SCENE I

Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA

DOLA. Why would you shift it from yourself on me?

Can you not tell her, you must part?

ANT. I cannot.

I could pull out an eye, and bid it go,

And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella,

How many deaths are in this word, Depart!

I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:

One look of hers would thaw me into tears,

And I should melt, till I were lost again.

DOLA. Then let Ventidius;

He's rough by nature.

ANT. Oh, he'll speak too harshly;

He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.

DOLA. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould,

That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure,

Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes,

And robs me of my manhood. I should speak

So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart,

She'd not believe it earnest.

ANT. Therefore,—therefore

Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me;

And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long),

Take off the edge from every sharper sound,

And let our parting be as gently made,

As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this?

DOLA. What you have said so sinks into my soul,

That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.

ANT. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell.

I sent her word to meet you.［Goes to the door, and comes back.

I forgot;

Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine,

Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,

If I have power with Cæsar.—Oh, be sure

To think on that.

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

ANT. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained;

I did not this, but with extremest force.

Desire her not to hate my memory,

For I still cherish hers:—insist on that.

DOLA. Trust me. I'll not forget it.

ANT. Then that's all.［Goes out, and returns again.

Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more?

Tell her, though we shall never meet again,

If I should hear she took another love,

The news would break my heart.—Now I must go;

For every time I have returned, I feel

My soul more tender; and my next command

Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both.［Exit.

DOLA. Men are but children of a larger growth;

Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,

And full as craving too, and full as vain;

And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room,

Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing:

But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,

Works all her folly up, and casts it outward

To the world's open view: Thus I discovered,

And blamed the love of ruined Antony:

Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined.

Enter VENTIDIUS above

VENT. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too?

Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once,

And may pursue it still.

DOLA. O friendship! friendship!

Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse:

Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win;

And if i win, undone; mere madness all.

And yet the occasion's fair. What injury

To him, to wear the robe which he throws by!

VENT. None, none at all. This happens as I wish,

To ruin her yet more with Antony.

Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS;

CHARMION, IRAS on the other side

DOLA. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face!

Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness;

Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile

Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night,

And shows a moment's day.

VENT. If she should love him too! her eunuch there?

That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer,

Sweet devil, that I may hear.

ALEX. Believe me; try

［DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS;

seems to talk with them.

To make him jealous; jealousy is like

A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt;

If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it.

CLEO. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love,

But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine;

It puts out the disease, and makes it show,

But has no power to cure.

ALEX. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too:

And then this Dolabella, who so fit

To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young,

And looks as he were laid for nature's bait,

To catch weak women's eyes.

He stands already more than half suspected

Of loving you: the least kind word or glance,

You give this youth, will kindle him with love:

Then, like a burning vessel set adrift,

You'll send him down amain before the wind,

To fire the heart of jealous Antony.

CLEO. Can I do this? Ah, no, my love's so true,

That I can neither hide it where it is,

Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me

A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove,

Fond without art, and kind without deceit;

But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me,

Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished

Of falsehood to be happy.

ALEX. Force yourself.

The event will be, your lover will return,

Doubly desirous to possess the good

Which once he feared to lose.

CLEO. I must attempt it;

But oh, with what regret! ［Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.

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

CLEO. ［to DOL.］ Discoursing with my women! might not I

Share in your entertainment?

CHAR. You have been

The subject of it, madam.

CLEO. How! and how!

IRAS. Such praises of your beauty!

CLEO. Mere poetry.

Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus,

Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.

DOLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt;

Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung:

I, who have seen—had I been born a poet,

Should choose a nobler name.

CLEO. You flatter me.

But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country

Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you.

I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words.

DOLA. No, madam; yet he sent me—

CLEO. Well, he sent you—

DOLA. Of a less pleasing errand.

CLEO. How less pleasing?

Less to yourself, or me?

DOLA. Madam, to both;

For your must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.

CLEO. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.—

Hold up, my spirits. ［Aside.］—Well, now your mournful matter;

For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too.

DOLA. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office,

To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex,

Most fear displeasing you.

CLEO. Of all your sex,

I soonest could forgive you, if you should.

VENT. Most delicate advances! Women! women!

Dear, damned, inconstant sex!

CLEO. In the first place,

I am to be forsaken; is't not so?

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

CLEO. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you:

I should have been more grieved another time.

Next I'm to lose my kingdom—Farewell, Egypt!

Yet, is there any more?

DOLA. Madam, I fear

Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.

CLEO. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune:

And love may be expelled by other love,

As poisons are by poisons.

DOLA. Your o'erjoy me, madam,

To find your griefs so moderately borne.

You've heard the worst; all are not false like him.

CLEO. No; Heaven forbid they should.

DOLA. Some men are constant.

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

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

VENT. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough:

But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider.［Exit.

DOLA. I came prepared

To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought

Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear:

But you have met it with a cheerfulness,

That makes my task more easy; and my tongue,

Which on another's message was employed,

Would gladly speak its own.

CLEO. Hold, Dolabella.

First tell me, were you chosen by my lord?

Or sought you this employment?

DOLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend,

He charged me with his words.

CLEO. The message then

I know was tender, and each accent smooth,

To mollify that rugged word, Depart.

DOLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words;

With fiery eyes, and contracted brows,

He coined his face in the severest stamp;

And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake;

He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Ætna,

In sounds scarce human—“Hence away for ever,

Let her begone, the blot of my renown,

And bane of all my hopes!”

［All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more

and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.

“Let her be driven, as far as men can think,

From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre.”

CLEO. Oh, I can bear no more!

DOLA. Help, help!—O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch!

What have I done!

CHAR. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.

IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly.

CHAR. Heaven be praised,

She comes again.

CLEO. Oh, let him not approach me.

Why have you brought me back to this loathed being;

The abode of falsehood, violated vows,

And injured love? For pity, let me go;

For, if there be a place of long repose,

I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord

Can never break that quiet; nor awake

The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb

Such words as fright her hence.—Unkind, unkind!

DOLA. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak;［Kneeling.

That sure desires belief; I injured him:

My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen

How often he came back, and every time

With something more obliging and more kind,

To add to what he said; what dear farewells;

How almost vanquished by his love he parted,

And leaned to what unwillingly he left!

I, traitor as I was, for love of you

(But what can you not do, who made me false?)

I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels

This self-accused, self-punished criminal.

CLEO. With how much ease believe we what we wish!

Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty,

I have contributed, and too much love

Has made me guilty too.

The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned,

To call back fleeting love by jealousy;

But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose,

Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.

DOLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach,

Transparent as a rock of solid crystal;

Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend,

What endless treasure hast thou thrown away;

And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean,

Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!

CLEO. Could you not beg

An hour's admittance to his private ear?

Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds

And yet foreknows no hospitable inn

Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill,

Before his painful march;

So would I feed a while my famished eyes

Before we part; for I have far to go,

If death be far, and never must return.

VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind

VENT. From hence you may discover—oh, sweet, sweet!

Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest?

DOLA. I will, for this reward.［Takes her hand.

Draw it not back.

'Tis all I e'er will beg.

VENT. They turn upon us.

OCTAV. What quick eyes has guilt!

VENT. Seem not to have observed them, and go on.［They enter.

DOLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius?

VENT. No.

I sought him; but I heard that he was private,

None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.

DOLA. Know you his business?

VENT. Giving him instructions,

And letters to his brother Cæsar.

DOLA. Well,

He must be found.［Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.

OCTAV. Most glorious impudence!

VENT. She looked, methought,

As she would say—Take your old man, Octavia;

Thank you, I'm better here.—

Well, but what use

Make we of this discovery?

OCTAV. Let it die.

VENT. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous:

Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms,

To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence,

The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery;

And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day,

Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming,

Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth:

The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles;

And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity,

They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her,

With a malignant joy behold such beauty;

And, while I curse, desire it. Antony

Must needs have some remains of passion still,

Which may ferment into a worse relapse,

If now not fully cured. I know, this minute,

With Cæsar he's endeavouring her peace.

OCTAV. You have prevailed:—But for a further purpose［Walks off.

I'll prove how he will relish this discovery.

What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart:

It must not, shall not be.

VENT. His guards appear.

Let me begin, and you shall second me.

Enter ANTONY

ANT. Octavia, I was looking you, my love:

What, are your letters ready? I have given

My last instructions.

OCTAV. Mine, my lord, are written.

ANT. Ventidius. ［Drawing him aside.

VENT. My lord?

ANT. A word in private.—

When saw you Dolabella?

VENT. Now, my lord,

He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him.

ANT. Speak softly.—'Twas by my command he went,

To bear my last farewell.

VENT. It looked indeed［Aloud.

Like your farewell.

ANT. More softly.—My farewell?

What secret meaning have you in those words

Of—My farewell? He did it by my order.

VENT. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose［Aloud.

You bid him do it with all gentleness,

All kindness, and all-love.

ANT. How she mourned,

The poor forsaken creature!

VENT. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting

As she did Cæsar's, as she would another's,

Were a new love to come.

ANT. Thou dost belie her;［Aloud.

Most basely, and maliciously belie her.

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

OCTAV. You seemed disturbed, my Lord.［Coming up.

ANT. A very trifle.

Retire, my love.

VENT. It was indeed a trifle.

He sent—

ANT. No more. Look how thou disobey'st me;［Angrily.

Thy life shall answer it.

OCTAV. Then 'tis no trifle.

VENT. ［to OCTAV.］ 'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it,

As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret.

ANT. She saw it!

VENT. Yes: She saw young Dolabella—

ANT. Young Dolabella!

VENT. Young, I think him young,

And handsome too; and so do others think him.

But what of that? He went by your command,

Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message;

For she received it graciously; she smiled;

And then he grew familiar with her hand,

Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses;

She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again;

At last she took occasion to talk softly,

And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his;

At which, he whispered kisses back on hers;

And then she cried aloud—That constancy

Should be rewarded.

OCTAV. This I saw and heard.

ANT. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw

So playful with my friend?

Not Cleopatra?

VENT. Even she, my lord.

ANT. My Cleopatra?

VENT. Your Cleopatra;

Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra.

ANT. Thou liest.

VENT. I do not lie, my lord.

Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left,

And not provide against a time of change?

You know she's not much used to lonely nights.

ANT. I'll think no more on't.

I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.—

You needed not have gone this way, Octavia.

What harms it you that Cleopatra's just?

She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive:

Urge it no further, love.

OCTAV. Are you concerned,

That she's found false?

ANT. I should be, were it so;

For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world

Should tax my former choice, that I loved one

Of so light note; but I forgive you both.

VENT. What has my age deserved, that you should think

I would abuse your ears with perjury?

If Heaven be true, she's false.

ANT. Though heaven and earth

Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted.

VENT. I'll bring you, then a witness

From hell, to prove her so.—Nay, go not back;

［Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.

For stay you must and shall.

ALEX. What means my lord

VENT. To make you do what most you hate,—speak truth.

Your are of Cleopatra's private counsel,

Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours;

Are conscious of each nightly change she makes,

And watch her, as Chaldæans do the moon,

Can tell what signs she passes through, what day.

ALEX. My noble lord!

VENT. My most illustrious pander,

No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods,

But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask.

I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love

To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know,

By your confession, what more passed betwixt them;

How near the business draws to your employment;

And when the happy hour.

ANT. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend

Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify

Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst.

OCTAV. ［aside］. See how he gives him courage! how he fears

To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth,

Willing to be misled!

ALEX. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty,

Urged by desert and greatness of the lover,

So far, divine Octavia, may my queen

Stand even excused to you for loving him

Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius,

May her past actions hope a fair report.

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

ALEX. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion

Stands not excused, but wholly justified.

Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown,

From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows

Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid

The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps,

To choose where she would reign:

She thought a Roman only could deserve her,

And, of all Romans, only Antony;

And, to be less than wife to you, disdained

Their lawful passion.

ANT. 'Tis but truth.

ALEX. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert.

Have drawn her from the due regard of honour,

At last Heaven opened her unwilling eyes

To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia,

Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped.

The sad effects of this improsperous war

Confirmed those pious thoughts.

VENT. ［aside］. Oh, wheel you there?

Observe him now; the man begins to mend,

And talk substantial reason.—Fear not, eunuch;

The emperor has given thee leave to speak.

ALEX. Else had I never dared to offend his ears

With what the last necessity has urged

On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not

Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered.

ANT. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not

Pronounce that fatal word!

OCTAV. Must I bear this? Good Heaven, afford me patience.［Aside.

VENT. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed.

ALEX. Yet Dolabella

Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord,

Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion,

Rejected, as she is, by him she loved—

ANT. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more:

Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all

The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand

Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes;

Then join thou too, and help to torture her!［Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.

OCTAV. 'Tis not well.

Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me,

To show this passion, this extreme concernment,

For an abandoned, faithless prostitute.

ANT. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered:

Leave me, I say.

OCTAV. My lord!

ANT. I bid you leave me.

VENT. Obey him, madam: best withdraw a while,

And see how this will work.

OCTAV. Wherein have I offended you, my lord,

That I am bid to leave you? Am I false,

Or infamous? Am I a Cleopatra?

Were I she,

Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you;

But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses,

And fawn upon my falsehood.

ANT. 'Tis too much.

Too much, Octavia; I am pressed with sorrows

Too heavy to be borne; and you add more:

I would retire, and recollect what's left

Of man within, to aid me.

OCTAV. You would mourn,

In private, for your love, who has betrayed you.

You did but half return to me: your kindness

Lingered behind with her, I hear, my lord,

You make conditions for her,

And would include her treaty. Wondrous proofs

Of love to me!

ANT. Are you my friend, Ventidius?

Or are you turned a Dolabella too,

And let this fury loose?

VENT. Oh, be advised,

Sweet madam, and retire.

OCTAV. Yes, I will go; but never to return.

You shall no more be haunted with this Fury.

My lord, my lord, love will not always last,

When urged with long unkindness and disdain:

Take her again, whom you prefer to me;

She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man!

Let a feigned parting give her back your heart,

Which a feigned love first got; for injured me,

Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay,

My duty shall be yours.

To the dear pledges of our former love

My tenderness and care shall be transferred,

And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights:

So, take my last farewell; for I despair

To have you whole, and scorn to take you half.［Exit.

VENT. I combat Heaven, which blasts my best designs;

My last attempt must be to win her back;

But oh! I fear in vain. ［Exit.

ANT. Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart,

Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness,

But bears its workings outward to the world?

I should have kept the mighty anguish in,

And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood:

Octavia had believed it, and had stayed.

But I am made a shallow-forded stream,

Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned,

And all my faults exposed.—See where he comes,

Enter DOLABELLA

Who has profaned the sacred name of friend,

And worn it into vileness!

With how secure a brow, and specious form,

He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face

Was meant for honesty; but Heaven mismatched it,

And furnished treason out with nature's pomp,

To make its work more easy.

DOLA. O my friend!

ANT. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message?

DOLA. I did, unwillingly.

ANT. Unwillingly?

Was it so hard for you to bear our parting?

You should have wished it.

DOLA. Why?

ANT. Because you love me.

And she received my message with as true,

With as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it?

DOLA. She loves you, even to madness.

ANT. Oh, I know it.

You, Dolabella, do not better know

How much she loves me. And should I

Forsake this beauty? This all-perfect creature?

DOLA. I could not, were she mine.

ANT. And yet you first

Persuaded me: How come you altered since?

DOLA. I said at first I was not fit to go:

I could not hear her sighs, and see her tears,

But pity must prevail: And so, perhaps,

It may again with you; for I have promised,

That she should take her last farewell: And, see,

She comes to claim my word.

Enter CLEOPATRA

ANT. False Dolabella!

DOLA. What's false, my lord?

ANT. Why, Dolabella's false,

And Cleopatra's false; both false and faithless.

Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents,

Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed,

Till I am stung to death.

DOLA. My lord, have I

Deserved to be thus used?

CLEO. Can Heaven prepare

A newer torment? Can it find a curse

Beyond our separation?

ANT. Yes, if fate

Be just, much greater: Heaven should be ingenious

In punishing such crimes. The rolling stone,

And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented

When Jove was young, and no examples known

Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin,

To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods

To find an equal torture. Two, two such!—

Oh, there's no further name,—two such! to me,

To me, who locked my soul within your breasts,

Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you;

When half the globe was mine, I gave it you

In dowry with my heart; I had no use,

No fruit of all, but you: A friend and mistress

Was what the world could give. O Cleopatra!

O Dolabella! how could you betray

This tender heart, which with an infant fondness

Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept,

Secure of injured faith?

DOLA. If she has wronged you,

Heaven, hell, and you revenge it.

ANT. If she has wronged me!

Thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear

Thou lov'st not her.

DOLA. Not so as I love you.

ANT. Not so? Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her.

DOLA. No more than friendship will allow.

ANT. No more?

Friendship allows thee nothing: Thou art perjured—

And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not;

But not so much, no more. O trifling hypocrite,

Who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love,

Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it;

Octavia saw it.

CLEO. They are enemies.

ANT. Alexas is not so: He, he confessed it;

He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it.

Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself? ［To DOLABELLA.

You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell,

Returned, to plead her stay.

Mrs. Yates as Cleopatra (from a contemporary print)

"I'll die; I will not bear it. You may hold me"(She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her)

DOLA. What shall I answer?

If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned;

But if to have repented of that love

Can wash away my crime, I have repented.

Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness,

Let not her suffer: She is innocent.

CLEO. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves?

What means will she refuse, to keep that heart,

Where all her joys are placed? 'Twas I encouraged,

'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul,

To make you jealous, and by that regain you.

But all in vain; I could not counterfeit:

In spite of all the dams my love broke o'er,

And drowned by heart again: fate took the occasion;

And thus one minute's feigning has destroyed

My whole life's truth.

ANT. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood;

Seen, and broke through at first.

DOLA. Forgive your mistress.

CLEO. Forgive your friend.

ANT. You have convinced yourselves.

You plead each other's cause: What witness have you,

That you but meant to raise my jealousy?

CLEO. Ourselves, and Heaven.

ANT. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship!

You have no longer place in human breasts,

These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight!

I would not kill the man whom I have loved,

And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me:

I do not know how long I can be tame;

For, if I stay one minute more, to think

How I am wronged, my justice and revenge

Will cry so loud within me, that my pity

Will not be heard for either.

DOLA. Heaven has but

Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights

To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems

Its darling attribute, which limits justice;

As if there were degrees in infinite,

And infinite would rather want perfection

Than punish to extent.

ANT. I can forgive

A foe; but not a mistress and a friend.

Treason is there in its most horrid shape,

Where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned,

Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more;

Hence from my sight for ever!

CLEO. How? for ever!

I cannot go one moment from your sight,

And must I go for ever?

My joys, my only joys, are centred here:

What place have I to go to? My own kingdom?

That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans?

They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander

The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman,

Banished for love of you; banished from you?

Ay, there's the banishment! Oh, hear me; hear me,

With strictest justice: For I beg no favour;

And if I have offended you, then kill me,

But do not banish me.

ANT. I must not hear you.

I have a fool within me takes your part;

But honour stops my ears.

CLEO. For pity hear me!

Would you cast off a slave who followed you?

Who crouched beneath your spurn:—He has no pity!

See, if he gives one tear to my departure;

One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart!

Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us,

If he did ever love!

ANT. No more: Alexas!

DOLA. A perjured villain!

ANT. ［to CLEO.］. Your Alexas; yours.

CLEO. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design,

To engage you in my love by jealousy.

Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak.

ANT. I have; I have.

CLEO. And if he clear me not—

ANT. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles!

Watches your eye, to say or to unsay,

Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved.

CLEO. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord!

The appearance is against me; and I go,

Unjustified, for ever from your sight.

How I have loved, you know; how yet I love,

My only comfort is, I know myself:

I love you more, even now you are unkind,

Then when you loved me most; so well, so truly

I'll never strive against it; but die pleased,

To think you once were mine.

ANT. Good heaven, they weep at parting!

Must I weep too? that calls them innocent.

I must not weep; and yet I must, to think

That I must not forgive.—

Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should,

Who made me so: Live from each other's sight:

Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth,

And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves:

View nothing common but the sun and skies.

Now, all take several ways;

 And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore;

 That you were false, and I could trust no more. ［Exeunt severally.

ACT V

SCENE I

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

CHAR. Be juster, Heaven; such virtue punished thus,

Will make us think that chance rules all above,

And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots,

Which man is forced to draw.

CLEO. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart,

And had not power to keep it. O the curse

Of doting on, even when I find it dotage!

Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go;

You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows

Of promised faith!—I'll die; I will not bear it.

You may hold me— ［She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her.

But I can keep my breath; I can die inward,

And choke this love.

Enter ALEXAS

IRAS. Help, O Alexas, help!

The queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her

With all the agonies of love and rage,

And strives to force its passage.

CLEO. Let me go.

Art thou there, traitor!—O,

O for a little breath, to vent my rage,

Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him.

ALEX. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth.

Was it for me to prop

The ruins of a falling majesty?

To place myself beneath mighty flaw,

Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms,

By its o'erwhelming weight? 'Tis too presuming

For subjects to preserve that wilful power,

Which courts its own destruction.

CLEO. I would reason

More calmly with you. Did not you o'errule,

And force my plain, direct, and open love,

Into these crooked paths of jealousy?

Now, what's the event? Octavia is removed;

But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou villain,

Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove,

At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back.

It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined:

Hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!—

I can no more: Thou, and my griefs, have sunk

Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee.

ALEX. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore,

Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff,

If, from above, some charitable hand

Pull him to safety, hazarding himself,

To draw the other's weight; would he look back,

And curse him for his pains? The case is yours;

But one step more, and you have gained the height.

CLEO. Sunk, never more to rise.

ALEX. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished.

Believe me, madam, Antony is yours.

His heart was never lost, but started off

To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert;

Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence,

And listening for the sound that calls it back.

Some other, any man ('tis so advanced),

May perfect this unfinished work, which I

(Unhappy only to myself) have left

So easy to his hand.

CLEO. Look well thou do't; else—

ALEX. Else, what your silence threatens.—Antony

Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret,

He stands surveying our Egyptian galleys,

Engaged with Cæsar's fleet. Now death or conquest!

If the first happen, fate acquits my promise;

If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours.［A distant shout within.

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

IRAS. Hark! they redouble it.

ALEX. 'Tis from the port.

The loudness shows it near: Good news, kind heavens!

CLEO. Osiris make it so!

Enter SERAPION

SERAP. Where, where's the queen?

ALEX. How frightfully the holy coward stares

As if not yet recovered of the assault,

When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him,

His offerings, were at stake.

SERAP. O horror, horror!

Egypt has been; our latest hour has come:

The queen of nations, from her ancient seat,

Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss:

Time has unrolled her glories to the last,

And now closed up the volume.

CLEO. Be more plain:

Say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face,

Which from the haggard eyes looks wildly out,

And threatens ere thou speakest.

SERAP. I came from Pharos;

From viewing (spare me, and imagine it)

Our land's last hope, your navy—

CLEO. Vanquished?

SERAP. No:

They fought not.

CLEO. Then they fled.

SERAP. Nor that. I saw,

With Antony, your well-appointed fleet

Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high,

And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back:

'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet,

About to leave the bankrupt prodigal,

With a dissembled smile would kiss at parting,

And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars,

Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run

To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met,

But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps

On either side thrown up; the Egyptian galleys,

Received like friends, passed through, and fell behind

The Roman rear: And now, they all come forward,

And ride within the port.

CLEO. Enough, Serapion:

I've heard my doom.—This needed not, you gods:

When I lost Antony, your work was done;

'Tis but superfluous malice.—Where's my lord?

How bears he this last blow?

SERAP. His fury cannot be expressed by words:

Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen

Full on his foes, and aimed at Cæsar's galley:

Withheld, he raves on you; cries,—He's betrayed.

Should he now find you—

ALEX. Shun him; seek your safety,

Till you can clear your innocence.

CLEO. I'll stay.

ALEX. You must not; haste you to your monument,

While I make speed to Cæsar.

CLEO. Cæsar! No,

I have no business with him.

ALEX. I can work him

To spare your life, and let this madman perish.

CLEO. Base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too?

Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor;

'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.—

Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me:

But haste, each moment's precious.

SERAP. Retire; you must not yet see Antony.

He who began this mischief,

'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you:

And, since he offered you his servile tongue,

To gain a poor precarious life from Cæsar,

Let him expose that fawning eloquence,

And speak to Antony.

ALEX. O heavens! I dare not;

I meet my certain death.

CLEO. Slave, thou deservest it.—

Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him;

I know him noble: when he banished me,

And thought me false, he scorned to take my life;

But I'll be justified, and then die with him.

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

CLEO. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst,

Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save;

While mine I prize at—this! Come, good Serapion.

［Exeunt CLEOPATRA, SERAPION, CHARMION, and IRAS.

ALEX. O that I less could fear to lose this being,

Which, like a snowball in my coward hand,

The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.

Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou!

For still, in spite of thee,

These two long lovers, soul and body, dread

Their final separation. Let me think:

What can I say, to save myself from death?

No matter what becomes of Cleopatra.

ANT. Which way? where? ［Within.

VENT. This leads to the monument ［Within.

ALEX. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unprepared:

My gift of lying's gone;

And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised,

Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay;

Yet cannot far go hence. ［Exit.

Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS

ANT. O happy Cæsar! thou hast men to lead:

Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony;

But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm betrayed.

VENT. Curse on this treacherous train!

Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness:

And their young souls come tainted to the world

With the first breath they draw.

ANT. The original villain sure no god created;

He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile,

Aped into man; with all his mother's mud

Crusted about his soul.

VENT. The nation is

One universal traitor; and their queen

The very spirit and extract of them all.

ANT. Is there yet left

A possibility of aid from valour?

Is there one god unsworn to my destruction?

The least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be,

Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate

Of such a boy as Cæsar.

The world's one half is yet in Antony;

And from each limb of it, that's hewed away,

The soul comes back to me.

VENT. There yet remain

Three legions in the town. The last assault

Lopt off the rest; if death be your design,—

As I must wish it now,—these are sufficient

To make a heap about us of dead foes,

An honest pile for burial.

ANT. They are enough.

We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side,

Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes

Survey each other's acts: So every death

Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt,

And pay thee back a soul.

VENT. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word

Of chiding more. By my few hours of life,

I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate,

That I would not be Cæsar, to outlive your.

When we put off this flesh, and mount together,

I shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd,—

Lo, this is he who died with Antony!

ANT. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops,

And reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the 'tempting,

To o'erleap this gulf of fate,

And leave our wandering destinies behind.

Enter ALEXAS, trembling

VENT. See, see, that villain!

See Cleopatra stamped upon that face,

With all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood!

How she looks out through those dissembling eyes!

How he sets his countenance for deceit,

And promises a lie, before he speaks!

Let me despatch him first. ［Drawing.

ALEX. O spare me, spare me!

ANT. Hold; he's not worth your killing.—On thy life,

Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it,

No syllable to justify thy queen;

Save thy base tongue its office.

ALEX. Sir, she is gone.

Where she shall never be molested more

By love, or you.

ANT. Fled to her Dolabella!

Die, traitor! I revoke my promise die!［Going to kill him.

ALEX. O hold! she is not fled.

ANT. She is: my eyes

Are open to her falsehood; my whole life

Has been a golden dream of love and friendship;

But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused

From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking,

And all his wealth cast over. Ungrateful woman!

Who followed me, but as the swallow summer,

Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams,

Singing her flatteries to my morning wake:

But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings,

And seeks the spring of Cæsar.

ALEX. Think not so;

Her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours.

Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome,

How easily might she have gone to Cæsar,

Secure by such a bribe!

VENT. She sent it first,

To be more welcome after.

ANT. 'Tis too plain;

Else would she have appeared, to clear herself.

ALEX. Too fatally she has: she could not bear

To be accused by you; but shut herself

Within her monument; looked down and sighed;

While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears

Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting.

Some indistinguished words she only murmured;

At last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks

As dying Lucrece cast—

ANT. My heart forebodes—

VENT. All for the best:—Go on.

ALEX. She snatched her poniard,

And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow,

Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me:

Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell;

And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith.

More she was saying, but death rushed betwixt.

She half pronounced your name with her last breath,

And buried half within her.

VENT. Heaven be praised!

ANT. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love,

And art thou dead?

O those two words! their sound should be divided:

Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived,

And hadst been true—But innocence and death!

This shows not well above. Then what am I,

The murderer of this truth, this innocence!

Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid

As can express my guilt!

VENT. Is't come to this? The gods have been too gracious;

And thus you thank them for it!

ANT.［to ALEX］. Why stayest thou here?

Is it for thee to spy upon my soul,

And see its inward mourning? Get thee hence;

Thou art not worthy to behold, what now

Becomes a Roman emperor to perform.

ALEX. He loves her still:

His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find

She's yet alive, completes the reconcilement.

I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans!

Fate comes too fast upon my wit,

Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. ［Aside. Exit.

VENT. Would she had died a little sooner, though!

Before Octavia went, you might have treated:

Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received.

Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together.

ANT. I will not fight: there's no more work for war.

The business of my angry hours is done.

VENT. Cæsar is at your gates.

ANT. Why, let him enter;

He's welcome now.

VENT. What lethargy has crept into your soul?

ANT. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire

To free myself from bondage.

VENT. Do it bravely.

ANT. I will; but not by fighting. O Ventidius!

What should I fight for now?—my queen is dead.

I was but great for her; my power, my empire,

Were but my merchandise to buy her love;

And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead,

Let Cæsar take the world,—

An empty circle, since the jewel's gone

Which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous;

For all the bribes of life are gone away.

VENT. Would you be taken?

ANT. Yes, I would be taken;

But, as a Roman ought,—dead, my Ventidius:

For I'll convey my soul from Cæsar's reach,

And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world

Should have a lord, and know whom to obey.

We two have kept its homage in suspense,

And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod,

Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk

Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part.

My torch is out; and the world stands before me,

Like a black desert at the approach of night:

I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on.

VENT. I could be grieved,

But that I'll not outlive you: choose your death;

For, I have seen him in such various shapes,

I care not which I take: I'm only troubled,

The life I bear is worn to such a rag,

'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed,

We threw it from us with a better grace;

That, like two lions taken in the toils,

We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound

The hunters that inclose us.

ANT. I have thought on it.

Ventidius, you must live.

VENT. I must not, sir.

ANT. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?

To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches

From the ill tongues of men?

VENT. Who shall guard mine,

For living after you?

ANT. Say, I command it.

VENT. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves

And need no living witness.

ANT. Thou hast loved me,

And fain I would reward thee. I must die;

Kill me, and take the merit of my death,

To make thee friends with Cæsar.

VENT. Thank your kindness.

You said I loved you; and in recompense,

You bid me turn a traitor: Did I think

You would have used me thus?—that I should die

With a hard thought of you?

ANT. Forgive me, Roman.

Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death,

My reason bears no rule upon my tongue,

But lets my thoughts break all at random out.

I've thought better; do not deny me twice.

VENT. By Heaven I will not.

Let it not be to outlive you.

ANT. Kill me first,

And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve

Thy friend, before thyself.

VENT. Give me your hand.

We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!—［Embrace.

Methinks that word's too cold to be my last:

Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend!

That's all—

I will not make a business of a trifle;

And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you;

Pray turn your face.

ANT. I do: strike home, be sure.

VENT. Home as my sword will reach. ［Kills himself.

ANT. Oh, thou mistak'st;

That wound was not of thine; give it me back:

Thou robb'st me of my death.

VENT. I do indeed;

But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you,

If that may plead my pardon.—And you, gods,

Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured,

Rather than kill my friend. ［Dies.

ANT. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death!

My queen and thou have got the start of me,

And I'm the lag of honour.—Gone so soon?

Is Death no more? he used him carelessly,

With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked,

Ran to the door, and took him in his arms,

As who should say—You're welcome at all hours,

A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him;

For all the learned are cowards by profession.

'Tis not worth

My further thought; for death, for aught I know,

Is but to think no more. Here's to be satisfied.［Falls on his sword.

I've missed my heart. O unperforming hand!

Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time.

My fortune jades me to the last; and death,

Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait

For my admittance. ［Trampling within.

Some, perhaps, from Cæsar:

If he should find me living, and suspect

That I played booty with my life! I'll mend

My work, ere they can reach me.［Rises upon his knees.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

CLEO. Where is my lord? where is he?

CHAR. There he lies,

And dead Ventidius by him.

CLEO. My tears were prophets; I am come too late.

O that accursed Alexas!［Runs to him.

ANT. Art thou living?

Or am I dead before I knew, and thou

The first kind ghost that meets me?

CLEO. Help me seat him.

Send quickly, send for help!［They place him in a chair.

ANT. I am answered.

We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra:

I'll make the most I can of life, to stay

A moment more with thee.

CLEO. How is it with you?

ANT. 'Tis as with a man

Removing in a hurry; all packed up,

But one dear jewel that his haste forgot;

And he, for that, returns upon the spur:

So I come back for thee.

CLEO. Too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me:

Now show your mended faith, and give me back

His fleeting life!

ANT. It will not be, my love;

I keep my soul by force.

Say but, thou art not false.

CLEO. 'Tis now too late

To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you.

Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death:

Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent

This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed

Both you and me.

ANT. And Dolabella—

CLEO. Scarce

Esteemed before he loved; but hated now.

ANT. Enough: my life's not long enough for more.

Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee;

For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest,

That we may part more kindly.

CLEO. I will come:

Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too:

Cæsar shall triumph o'er no part of thee.

ANT. But grieve not, while thou stayest,

My last disastrous times:

Think we have had a clear and glorious day

And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm,

Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love,

And not a moment lost, but all improved

To the utmost joys,—what ages have we lived?

And now to die each other's; and, so dying,

While hand in hand we walk in groves below,

Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us,

And all the train be ours.

CLEO. Your words are like the notes of dying swans,

Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours

For your unkindness, and not one for love?

ANT. No, not a minute.—This one kiss—more worth

Than all I leave to Cæsar. ［Dies.

CLEO. O tell me so again,

And take ten thousand kisses for that word.

My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being;

Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast

One look! Do anything that shows you live.

IRAS. He's gone too far to hear you;

And this you see, a lump of senseless clay,

The leavings of a soul.

CHAR. Remember, madam,

He charged you not to grieve.

CLEO. And I'll obey him.

I have not loved a Roman, not to know

What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion!

For 'tis to that high title I aspire;

And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia

Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate

Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong

For Roman laws to break.

IRAS. Will you then die?

CLEO. Why shouldst thou make that question?

IRAS. Cæsar is merciful.

CLEO. Let him be so

To those that want his mercy: My poor lord

Made no such covenant with him, to spare me

When he was dead. Yield me to Cæsar's pride?

What! to be led in triumph through the streets,

A spectacle to base plebeian eyes;

While some dejected friend of Antony's,

Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters

A secret curse on her who ruined him!

I'll none of that.

CHAR. Whatever you resolve,

I'll follow, even to death.

IRAS. I only feared

For you; but more should fear to live without you.

CLEO. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends,

Despatch; ere this, the town's in Cæsar's hands:

My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,

Lest I should be surprised;

Keep him not waiting for his love too long.

You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels;

With them, the wreath of victory I made

(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead:

You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.

IRAS. The aspics, madam?

CLEO. Must I bid you twice? ［Exit CHARMION and IRAS.

'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me,

To rush into the dark abode of death,

And seize him first; if he be like my love,

He is not frightful, sure.

We're now alone, in secrecy and silence;

And is not this like lovers? I may kiss

These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me:

And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus,

Than see him in her arms.—Oh, welcome, welcome!

Enter CHARMION and IRAS

CHAR. What must be done?

CLEO. Short ceremony, friends;

But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel

Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely,

Nor left his shield behind him.—Only thou

Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone

Wert worthy so to triumph.

CHAR. To what end

These ensigns of your pomp and royalty?

CLEO. Dull, that thou art! why 'tis to meet my love;

As when I saw him first, on Cydnus' bank,

All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned,

I'll find him once again; my second spousals

Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,

And dress the bride of Antony.

CHAR. 'Tis done.

CLEO. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place,

For I must conquer Cæsar too, like him,

And win my share of the world.—Hail, you dear relics

Of my immortal love!

O let no impious hand remove you hence:

But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give

His death that peace, which it denied his life.—

Reach me the casket.

IRAS. Underneath the fruit

The aspic lies.

CLEO. Welcome, thou kind deceiver!［Putting aside the leaves.

Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,

Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,

Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so

Death's dreadful office, better than himself;

Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,

That Death stands by, deceived by his own image,

And thinks himself but sleep.

SERAP. The queen, where is she?［Within.

The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates.

CLEO. He comes too late to invade the rights of death!

Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury.［Holds out her arm, and draws it back.

Coward flesh,

Wouldst thou conspire with Cæsar to betray me,

As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it,

And not be sent by him,

But bring, myself, my soul to Antony.［Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody.

Take hence; the work is done.

SERAP. Break ope the door,［Within.

And guard the traitor well.

CHAR. The next is ours.

IRAS. Now, Charmion, to be worthy

Of our great queen and mistress.［They apply the aspics.

CLEO. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins:

I go with such a will to find my lord,

That we shall quickly meet.

A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,

And now 'tis at my head: My eyelids fall,

And my dear love is vanquished in a mist.

Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him,

And lay me on his breast!—Cæsar, thy worst;

Now part us, if thou canst. ［Dies.

［IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION

stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.

Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians

PRIEST. Behold, Serapion,

What havoc death has made!

SERAP. 'Twas what I feared.—

Charmion, is this well done?

CHAR. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last

Of her great race: I follow her.［Sinks down: dies.

ALEX. 'Tis true,

She has done well: Much better thus to die,

Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

SERAP. See how the lovers sit in state together,

As they were giving laws to half mankind!

The impression of a smile, left in her face,

Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived,

And went to charm him in another world.

Cæsar's just entering: grief has now no leisure.

Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,

To grace the imperial triumph.—Sleep, blest pair,

Secure from human chance, long ages out,

While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb;

And fame to late posterity shall tell,

No lovers lived so great, or died so well.［Exeunt.