All for love, or, The world well lost a tragedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal, and written in imitation of Shakespeare's stile / written by Mr. Dryden.
         Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
      
       
         
           1692
        
      
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             All for love, or, The world well lost a tragedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal, and written in imitation of Shakespeare's stile / written by Mr. Dryden.
             Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
             Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. Antony and Cleopatra.
          
           [18], 65, [1] p.
           
             Printed for H. Herringman, and sold by R. Bently, J. Tonson, F. Saunders, and T. Bennet,
             [London] In the Savoy :
             1692.
          
           
             Based on Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Cleopatra, -- Queen of Egypt, d. 30 B.C. -- Drama.
        
      
    
     
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           ALL
           for
           LOVE
           :
           OR
           ,
           THE
           World
           well
           Lost.
           A
           TRAGEDY
           ,
           As
           it
           is
           Acted
           at
           the
           THEATRE-ROYAL
           ;
           AND
           Written
           in
           Imitation
           of
           
           Shakespeare's
           Stile
           .
        
         
           Written
           by
           Mr.
           Dryden
           .
        
         
           
             Facile
             est
             verbum
             aliquod
             ardens
             (
             ut
             ita
             dicam
             )
             notare
             :
             Idque
             restinctis
             animorum
             incendiis
             irridere
             .
          
           
             Cicero
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             the
             SAVOY
          
           :
           Printed
           for
           
             H.
             Herringman
          
           ,
           and
           Sold
           by
           
             R.
             Bently
             ,
             J.
             Tonson
             ,
             F.
             Saunders
             ,
          
           and
           
             T.
             Bennet
          
           .
           1692.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           To
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           ,
           THOMAS
           Earl
           of
           Danby
           ,
           Viscount
           Latimer
           ,
           and
           Baron
           OSBORNE
           of
           Kiveton
           in
           York-shire
           ,
           Lord
           High
           Treasurer
           of
           England
           ,
           One
           of
           His
           Majesties
           most
           Honourable
           Privy
           Council
           ,
           and
           Knight
           of
           the
           Most
           Noble
           Order
           of
           the
           Garter
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             My
             LORD
             ,
          
        
         
           THE
           Gratitude
           of
           Poets
           is
           so
           troublesome
           a
           Virtue
           to
           Great
           Men
           ,
           that
           you
           are
           often
           in
           danger
           of
           your
           own
           Benefits
           :
           For
           you
           are
           threaten'd
           with
           some
           Epistle
           ,
           and
           not
           suffer'd
           to
           do
           Good
           in
           quiet
           ,
           or
           to
           compound
           for
           their
           Silence
           whom
           you
           have
           Oblig'd
           .
           Yet
           ,
           I
           Confess
           ,
           I
           neither
           am
           ,
           nor
           ought
           to
           be
           surpriz'd
           at
           this
           Indulgence
           ;
           For
           your
           Lordship
           has
           the
           same
           Right
           to
           Favour
           Poetry
           which
           the
           Great
           and
           Noble
           have
           ever
           had
           .
        
         
           
             Carmen
             amat
             ,
             quisquis
             carmine
             digna
             gerit
             .
          
        
         
           There
           is
           somewhat
           of
           a
           tye
           in
           Nature
           betwixt
           those
           who
           are
           Born
           for
           Worthy
           Actions
           ,
           and
           those
           who
           can
           transmit
           them
           to
           Posterity
           :
           And
           though
           ours
           be
           much
           the
           inferiour
           part
           ,
           it
           comes
           at
           least
           within
           the
           Verge
           of
           Alliance
           ;
           nor
           are
           we
           unprofitable
           Members
           of
           the
           Common-wealth
           ,
           when
           we
           animate
           others
           to
           those
           Virtues
           ,
           which
           we
           Copy
           and
           Describe
           from
           you
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           indeed
           their
           Interest
           ,
           who
           endeavour
           the
           Subversion
           of
           Governments
           ,
           to
           discourage
           Poets
           and
           Historians
           ;
           for
           the
           best
           which
           can
           happen
           to
           them
           is
           to
           be
           forgotten
           :
           But
           such
           ,
           who
           ,
           under
           KINGS
           ,
           
           are
           the
           Fathers
           of
           their
           Country
           ,
           and
           by
           a
           Just
           and
           Prudent
           ordering
           of
           Affairs
           preserve
           it
           ,
           have
           the
           same
           Reason
           to
           Cherish
           the
           Chroniclers
           of
           their
           Actions
           ,
           as
           they
           have
           to
           lay
           up
           in
           safety
           the
           Deeds
           and
           Evi●…
           of
           their
           Estates
           :
           For
           such
           Records
           are
           their
           undoubted
           Titles
           to
           the
           Love
           and
           Reverence
           of
           After-Ages
           .
           Your
           Lordships
           Administration
           has
           already
           taken
           up
           a
           considerable
           part
           of
           the
           
             English
             Annals
          
           ;
           and
           many
           of
           its
           most
           happy
           Years
           are
           owing
           to
           it
           .
           His
           MAJESTY
           ,
           the
           most
           knowing
           Judge
           of
           Men
           ,
           and
           the
           best
           Master
           ,
           has
           acknowledg'd
           the
           Ease
           and
           Benefit
           he
           Receives
           in
           the
           Incomes
           of
           His
           Treasury
           ,
           which
           you
           found
           not
           only
           Disorder'd
           ,
           but
           Exhausted
           .
           All
           Things
           were
           in
           the
           Confusion
           of
           a
           Chaos
           ,
           without
           Form
           or
           Method
           ,
           if
           not
           reduc'd
           beyond
           it
           ,
           even
           to
           Annihilation
           :
           So
           that
           you
           had
           not
           only
           to
           separate
           the
           Jarring
           Elements
           ,
           but
           (
           if
           that
           boldness
           of
           Expression
           might
           be
           allow'd
           me
           )
           to
           Create
           them
           .
           Your
           Enemies
           had
           so
           Embroil'd
           the
           Management
           of
           your
           Office
           ,
           that
           they
           look'd
           on
           your
           Advancement
           as
           the
           Instrument
           of
           your
           Ruine
           .
           And
           as
           if
           the
           clogging
           of
           the
           Revenue
           ,
           and
           the
           Confusion
           of
           Accounts
           ,
           which
           you
           found
           in
           your
           Entrance
           ,
           were
           not
           sufficient
           ,
           they
           added
           their
           own
           weight
           of
           Malice
           to
           the
           Publick
           Calamity
           ,
           by
           forestalling
           the
           Credit
           which
           shou'd
           Cure
           it
           :
           Your
           Friends
           on
           the
           other
           side
           were
           only
           capable
           of
           Pitying
           ,
           but
           not
           of
           Aiding
           you
           :
           No
           farther
           Help
           or
           Counsel
           was
           remaining
           to
           you
           ,
           but
           what
           was
           founded
           on
           your Self
           ;
           And
           that
           indeed
           was
           your
           Security
           :
           For
           your
           Diligence
           ,
           your
           Constancy
           ,
           and
           your
           Prudence
           ,
           wrought
           more
           surely
           within
           ,
           when
           they
           were
           not
           disturb'd
           by
           any
           outward
           Motion
           .
           The
           highest
           Virtue
           is
           best
           to
           be
           trusted
           with
           its
           Self
           ,
           for
           Asistance
           only
           can
           be
           given
           by
           a
           Genius
           Superiour
           to
           that
           which
           it
           Assists
           .
           And
           't
           is
           the
           Noblest
           kind
           of
           Debt
           ,
           when
           we
           are
           only
           oblig'd
           to
           God
           and
           Nature
           .
           This
           then
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           is
           your
           just
           Commendation
           ,
           That
           you
           have
           wrought
           out
           your Self
           a
           way
           to
           Glory
           ,
           by
           those
           very
           Means
           that
           were
           design'd
           for
           your
           Destruction
           :
           You
           have
           not
           only
           restor'd
           ,
           but
           advanc'd
           the
           Revenues
           of
           your
           Master
           without
           Grievance
           to
           the
           Subject
           :
           And
           as
           if
           that
           were
           little
           yet
           ,
           the
           Debts
           of
           the
           Exchequer
           ,
           which
           lay
           heaviest
           both
           on
           the
           Crown
           ,
           and
           on
           
             private
             Persons
          
           ,
           have
           by
           your
           Conduct
           been
           Establish'd
           in
           a
           certainty
           of
           Satisfaction
           .
           An
           Action
           so
           much
           the
           more
           Great
           and
           Honourable
           ,
           because
           the
           Case
           was
           without
           the
           ordinary
           Relief
           of
           Laws
           ;
           above
           the
           Hopes
           of
           the
           Afflicted
           ,
           and
           beyond
           the
           Narrowness
           of
           the
           Treasury
           to
           Redr●…ss
           ,
           had
           it
           been
           manag'd
           by
           a
           less
           able
           Hand
           .
           'T
           is
           certainly
           the
           Happiest
           ,
           and
           most
           Unenvy'd
           part
           of
           all
           your
           Fortune
           ,
           to
           do
           Good
           to
           many
           ,
           while
           you
           do
           Injury
           to
           none
           :
           To
           receive
           at
           once
           the
           Prayers
           of
           the
           Subject
           ,
           and
           the
           Praises
           of
           the
           Prince
           :
           And
           by
           the
           care
           of
           
           your
           Conduct
           ;
           to
           give
           Him
           Means
           of
           Exerting
           the
           chiefest
           ,
           (
           if
           any
           be
           the
           chiefest
           )
           of
           His
           Royal
           Virtues
           :
           His
           distributive
           Justice
           to
           the
           Deserving
           ,
           and
           His
           Bounty
           and
           Compassion
           to
           the
           Wanting
           .
           The
           Disposition
           of
           Princes
           towards
           their
           People
           ,
           cannot
           better
           be
           discover'd
           than
           in
           the
           choice
           of
           their
           Ministers
           ;
           who
           ,
           like
           the
           Animal
           Spirits
           betwixt
           the
           Soul
           and
           Body
           ,
           participate
           somewhat
           of
           both
           Natures
           ,
           and
           make
           the
           Communication
           which
           is
           betwixt
           them
           .
           A
           King
           ,
           who
           is
           Just
           and
           Moderate
           in
           his
           Nature
           ,
           who
           Rules
           according
           to
           the
           Laws
           ,
           whom
           God
           made
           Happy
           by
           Forming
           the
           Temper
           of
           His
           Soul
           to
           the
           Constitution
           of
           His
           Government
           ,
           and
           who
           makes
           us
           Happy
           ,
           by
           assuming
           over
           us
           no
           other
           Sovereignty
           than
           that
           wherein
           our
           Welfare
           and
           Liberty
           consists
           ;
           A
           Prince
           ,
           I
           say
           ,
           of
           so
           excellent
           a
           Character
           ,
           and
           so
           suitable
           to
           the
           Wishes
           of
           all
           Good
           Men
           ,
           could
           not
           better
           have
           convey'd
           Himself
           into
           His
           Peoples
           Apprehensions
           ,
           than
           in
           your
           Lordships
           Person
           ;
           who
           so
           lively
           express
           the
           same
           Virtues
           ,
           that
           you
           seem
           not
           so
           much
           a
           Copy
           ,
           as
           an
           Emanation
           of
           Him.
           Mod●…ration
           is
           doubtless
           an
           Establishment
           of
           Greatness
           ;
           but
           there
           is
           a
           steadiness
           of
           Temper
           which
           is
           likewise
           requisite
           in
           a
           Minister
           of
           State
           :
           So
           equal
           a
           mixture
           of
           both
           Virtues
           ,
           that
           he
           may
           stand
           like
           an
           Isthmus
           betwixt
           the
           two
           Encrooching
           Seas
           of
           Arbitrary
           Power
           ,
           and
           Lawless
           Anarchy
           .
           The
           Undertaking
           would
           be
           difficult
           to
           any
           but
           an
           Extraordinary
           Genius
           ,
           to
           stand
           at
           the
           Line
           ,
           and
           to
           divide
           the
           Limits
           ;
           to
           pay
           what
           is
           due
           to
           the
           Great
           Representative
           of
           the
           Nation
           ,
           and
           neither
           to
           inhance
           ,
           nor
           to
           yield
           up
           the
           undoubted
           Prerogatives
           of
           the
           Crown
           .
           These
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           are
           the
           proper
           Virtues
           of
           a
           Noble
           Englishman
           ,
           as
           indeed
           they
           are
           properly
           English
           Virtues
           :
           No
           People
           in
           the
           World
           being
           capable
           of
           using
           them
           ,
           but
           we
           who
           have
           the
           Happiness
           to
           be
           Born
           under
           so
           equal
           ,
           and
           so
           well-pois'd
           a
           Government
           .
           A
           Government
           which
           has
           all
           the
           Advantages
           of
           Liberty
           beyond
           a
           Commonwealth
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           Marks
           of
           Kingly
           Sovereignty
           without
           the
           danger
           of
           a
           Tyranny
           .
           Both
           my
           Nature
           ,
           as
           I
           am
           an
           Englishman
           ,
           and
           my
           Reason
           ,
           as
           I
           am
           a
           Man
           ,
           have
           bred
           in
           me
           a
           Loathing
           to
           that
           specious
           Name
           of
           a
           Repu●…ck
           ;
           That
           mock-appearance
           of
           a
           Liberty
           ,
           where
           all
           who
           have
           not
           part
           in
           the
           Government
           ,
           are
           Slaves
           ;
           And
           Slaves
           they
           are
           of
           a
           viler
           Note
           than
           such
           as
           are
           Subjects
           to
           an
           absolute
           Dominion
           .
           For
           no
           Christian
           Monarchy
           is
           so
           Absolute
           ,
           but
           't
           is
           Circumscrib'd
           with
           Laws
           :
           But
           when
           the
           Executive
           Power
           is
           in
           the
           Law-Makers
           ,
           there
           is
           no
           farther
           check
           upon
           them
           ;
           and
           the
           People
           must
           suffer
           without
           a
           Remedy
           ,
           because
           they
           are
           Oppress'd
           by
           their
           Representatives
           .
           If
           I
           must
           s●…rve
           ,
           the
           number
           of
           my
           Masters
           ,
           who
           were
           Born
           my
           Equals
           ,
           would
           but
           add
           to
           〈◊〉
           Ignominy
           of
           my
           Bondage
           .
           The
           Nature
           of
           our
           Government
           above
           all
           others
           ,
           
           is
           exactly
           Suited
           both
           to
           the
           Situation
           of
           our
           Country
           ,
           and
           the
           Temper
           of
           the
           Natives
           :
           An
           Island
           being
           more
           proper
           for
           Commerce
           and
           for
           Defence
           ,
           than
           for
           extending
           its
           Dominions
           on
           the
           Continent
           :
           For
           what
           the
           Valour
           of
           its
           Inhabitants
           might
           gain
           ,
           by
           Reason
           of
           its
           Remoteness
           ,
           and
           the
           Casualties
           of
           the
           Seas
           ,
           it
           cou'd
           not
           so
           easily
           preserve
           :
           And
           therefore
           ,
           neither
           the
           Arbitrary
           Power
           of
           one
           in
           a
           Monarchy
           ,
           n●…r
           of
           many
           in
           a
           Commonwealth
           ,
           could
           make
           us
           greater
           than
           we
           are
           .
           'T
           is
           true
           ,
           that
           vaster
           and
           more
           frequent
           Taxes
           might
           be
           gather'd
           ,
           when
           the
           Cons●…nt
           of
           the
           People
           was
           not
           Ask'd
           or
           Needed
           ;
           but
           this
           were
           only
           by
           Conquering
           abroad
           to
           be
           Poor
           at
           home
           :
           And
           the
           Examples
           of
           our
           Neighbours
           teach
           us
           ,
           that
           they
           are
           not
           always
           the
           Happiest
           Subjects
           whose
           Kings
           extend
           their
           Dominions
           farthest
           .
           Since
           therefore
           we
           cannot
           win
           by
           an
           Offensive
           War
           ,
           at
           least
           a
           Land-War
           ,
           the
           Model
           of
           our
           Government
           seems
           Naturally
           contriv'd
           for
           the
           Defensive
           part
           :
           And
           the
           Cons●…nt
           of
           a
           People
           is
           easily
           obtain'd
           to
           contribute
           to
           that
           Power
           which
           must
           protect
           it
           .
           
             Felices
             nimium
             bona
             si
             sua
             nôrint
             ,
             Angligenae
             !
          
           And
           yet
           there
           are
           not
           wanting
           Malecontents
           amongst
           us
           ,
           who
           Surf●…iting
           themselves
           on
           too
           much
           Happiness
           ,
           wou'd
           perswàde
           the
           People
           that
           they
           might
           be
           Happier
           by
           a
           Change.
           'T
           was
           indeed
           the
           Policy
           of
           their
           old
           For
           father
           ,
           when
           himself
           was
           fallen
           from
           the
           Station
           of
           Glory
           ,
           to
           seduce
           Mankind
           into
           the
           same
           Rebellion
           with
           him
           ,
           by
           telling
           him
           he
           might
           yet
           be
           freer
           than
           he
           was
           :
           That
           is
           ,
           more
           free
           than
           his
           Nature
           wou'd
           allow
           ,
           or
           (
           if
           I
           may
           so
           say
           )
           than
           God
           cou'd
           make
           him
           .
           We
           have
           already
           all
           the
           Liberty
           which
           Free-Born
           Subjects
           can
           enjoy
           ;
           and
           all
           beyond
           it
           is
           but
           License
           .
           But
           if
           it
           be
           Liberty
           of
           Conscience
           which
           they
           pretend
           ,
           the
           Moderation
           of
           our
           Church
           is
           such
           ,
           that
           its
           Practice
           extends
           not
           to
           the
           severity
           of
           Persecution
           ,
           and
           its
           Discipline
           is
           withal
           so
           easie
           ,
           that
           it
           allows
           more
           freedom
           to
           Dissenters
           than
           any
           of
           the
           Sects
           wou'd
           allow
           to
           it
           .
           In
           the
           mean
           time
           ,
           what
           Right
           can
           be
           pretended
           by
           these
           Men
           to
           attempt
           Innovations
           in
           Church
           or
           State
           ?
           Who
           made
           them
           the
           Trustees
           ,
           or
           (
           to
           Speak
           a
           little
           nearer
           their
           own
           Language
           )
           the
           Keepers
           of
           the
           Liberty
           of
           England
           ?
           If
           their
           Call
           be
           extraordinary
           ,
           let
           them
           Convince
           us
           by
           working
           Miracles
           ;
           for
           ordinary
           Vocation
           they
           can
           have
           none
           to
           disturb
           the
           Government
           under
           which
           they
           were
           Born
           ,
           and
           which
           protects
           them
           .
           He
           who
           has
           often
           chang'd
           his
           Party
           ,
           and
           always
           has
           made
           his
           Interest
           the
           Rule
           of
           it
           ,
           gives
           little
           Evidence
           of
           his
           Sincerity
           for
           the
           Publick
           Good
           :
           'T
           is
           manif●…st
           he
           changes
           but
           for
           himself
           ,
           and
           takes
           the
           People
           for
           Tools
           to
           work
           his
           Fortune
           .
           Yet
           the
           Experience
           of
           all
           Ages
           might
           ●…t
           him
           know
           ,
           that
           they
           who
           trouble
           the
           Waters
           first
           ,
           have
           s●…ldom
           the
           benefit
           of
           the
           Fishing
           :
           As
           they
           who
           began
           the
           late
           Rebellion
           ,
           enjoy'd
           not
           the
           Fruit
           of
           their
           Undertaking
           ,
           
           but
           were
           crush'd
           themselves
           by
           the
           Usurpation
           of
           their
           own
           Instrument
           .
           Neither
           is
           it
           enough
           for
           them
           to
           Answer
           ,
           that
           they
           only
           intend
           a
           Reformation
           of
           the
           Government
           ,
           but
           not
           the
           Subversion
           of
           it
           :
           On
           such
           pretences
           all
           Insurrections
           have
           been
           founded
           ;
           'T
           is
           striking
           at
           the
           Root
           of
           Power
           ,
           which
           is
           Obedience
           .
           Every
           Remonstrance
           of
           private
           Men
           ,
           has
           the
           seed
           of
           Treason
           in
           it
           ;
           and
           Discourses
           which
           are
           couch'd
           in
           ambiguous
           Terms
           ,
           are
           therefore
           the
           more
           dangerous
           ,
           because
           they
           do
           all
           the
           Mischief
           of
           open
           Sedition
           ,
           yet
           are
           safe
           from
           the
           Punishment
           of
           the
           Laws
           .
           These
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           are
           Considerations
           which
           I
           should
           not
           pass
           so
           lightly
           over
           ,
           had
           I
           room
           to
           manage
           them
           as
           they
           deserve
           :
           for
           no
           Man
           can
           be
           so
           inconsiderable
           in
           a
           Nation
           ,
           as
           not
           to
           have
           a
           share
           in
           the
           welfare
           of
           it
           ;
           and
           if
           he
           be
           a
           true
           Englishmen
           ,
           he
           must
           at
           the
           same
           time
           be
           fir'd
           with
           Indignation
           ,
           and
           revenge
           himself
           as
           he
           can
           on
           the
           Disturbers
           of
           his
           Country
           .
           And
           to
           whom
           could
           I
           more
           fitly
           apply
           my self
           ,
           than
           to
           your
           Lordship
           ,
           who
           have
           not
           only
           an
           inborn
           ,
           but
           an
           Hereditary
           Loyalty
           ?
           The
           memorable
           constancy
           and
           sufferings
           of
           your
           Father
           ,
           almost
           to
           the
           ●…uine
           of
           his
           Estate
           for
           the
           Royal
           Cause
           ,
           were
           an
           earnest
           of
           that
           ,
           which
           such
           a
           Parent
           and
           such
           an
           Institution
           wou'd
           produce
           in
           the
           Person
           of
           a
           Son.
           But
           so
           unhappy
           an
           occasion
           of
           manifesting
           your
           own
           Zeal
           in
           suffering
           for
           his
           present
           Majesty
           ,
           the
           Providence
           of
           God
           ,
           and
           the
           Prudence
           of
           your
           Administration
           ,
           will
           ,
           I
           hope
           ,
           prevent
           .
           That
           as
           your
           Fathers
           Fortune
           waited
           on
           the
           unhappiness
           of
           his
           Sovereign
           ,
           so
           your
           own
           may
           participate
           of
           the
           better
           Fate
           which
           attends
           his
           Son.
           The
           Relation
           which
           you
           have
           by
           Alliance
           to
           the
           Noble
           Family
           of
           your
           Lady
           ,
           serves
           to
           confirm
           to
           you
           both
           this
           happy
           Angury
           .
           For
           what
           can
           deserve
           a
           greater
           place
           in
           the
           English
           Chronicle
           ,
           than
           the
           Loyalty
           and
           Courege
           ,
           the
           Actions
           and
           Death
           of
           the
           General
           of
           an
           Army
           Fighting
           for
           His
           Prince
           and
           Country
           ?
           The
           Honour
           and
           Gallantry
           of
           the
           Earl
           of
           Lindsey
           ,
           is
           so
           illustrious
           a
           Subject
           ,
           that
           't
           is
           fit
           to
           adorn
           an
           Heroick
           Poem
           ;
           for
           He
           was
           the
           Proto-Martyr
           of
           the
           Cause
           ,
           and
           the
           Type
           of
           his
           unfortunate
           Royal
           Master
           .
        
         
           Yet
           ,
           after
           all
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           if
           I
           may
           speak
           my
           thoughts
           ,
           you
           are
           happy
           rather
           to
           us
           than
           to
           your self
           :
           for
           the
           Multiplicity
           ,
           the
           Cares
           ,
           and
           the
           Vexations
           of
           your
           Imployment
           ,
           have
           betray'd
           you
           from
           your self
           ,
           and
           given
           you
           up
           into
           the
           Possession
           of
           the
           Publick
           .
           You
           are
           Robb'd
           of
           your
           Privacy
           and
           Friends
           ,
           and
           scarce
           any
           hour
           of
           your
           Life
           you
           can
           call
           your
           own
           .
           Those
           who
           envy
           your
           Fortnne
           ,
           if
           they
           wanted
           not
           good
           Nature
           ,
           might
           more
           justly
           pity
           it
           ;
           and
           when
           they
           see
           you
           watch'd
           by
           a
           Croud
           of
           Suitors
           ,
           whose
           importunity
           't
           is
           impossible
           to
           avoid
           ,
           would
           conclude
           with
           Reason
           ,
           that
           you
           have
           lost
           much
           more
           in
           
           true
           Content
           ,
           than
           you
           have
           gain'd
           by
           Dignity
           ;
           and
           that
           a
           private
           Gentleman
           is
           better
           attended
           by
           a
           single
           Servant
           ,
           than
           your
           Lordship
           with
           so
           clamorous
           a
           Train
           .
           Pardon
           me
           ,
           
             My
             Lord
          
           ,
           If
           I
           speak
           like
           a
           Philosopher
           on
           this
           Subject
           ;
           the
           Fortune
           which
           makes
           a
           Man
           uneasie
           ,
           cannot
           make
           him
           Happy
           :
           and
           a
           Wise
           Man
           must
           think
           himself
           uneasie
           ,
           when
           few
           of
           his
           Actions
           are
           in
           his
           Choice
           .
        
         
           This
           last
           Consideration
           has
           brought
           me
           to
           another
           ,
           and
           a
           very
           seasonable
           one
           for
           your
           Relief
           ;
           which
           is
           ,
           That
           while
           I
           pity
           your
           want
           of
           leisure
           ,
           I
           have
           impertinently
           Detain'd
           you
           so
           long
           a
           time
           .
           I
           have
           put
           off
           my
           own
           Business
           ,
           which
           was
           my
           Dedication
           ,
           till
           't
           is
           so
           late
           ,
           that
           I
           am
           now
           asham'd
           to
           begin
           it
           :
           And
           therefore
           I
           will
           say
           nothing
           of
           the
           Poem
           ,
           which
           I
           Present
           to
           you
           ,
           because
           I
           know
           not
           if
           you
           are
           like
           to
           have
           an
           Hour
           ,
           which
           ,
           with
           a
           good
           Conscience
           ,
           you
           may
           throw
           away
           in
           perusing
           it
           :
           And
           for
           the
           Author
           ,
           I
           have
           only
           to
           beg
           the
           continuance
           of
           your
           Protection
           to
           him
           ,
           who
           is
           ,
        
         
           
             
               MY
               LORD
               ,
               Your
               Lordships
               ,
               most
               Obliged
               ,
               most
               Humble
               ,
               and
               most
               Obedient
               Servant
               ,
            
             JOHN
             DRYDEN
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           THe
           death
           of
           Anthony
           and
           Cleopatra
           ,
           is
           a
           Subject
           which
           has
           been
           treated
           by
           the
           greatest
           Wits
           of
           our
           Nation
           ,
           after
           Shakespeare
           ;
           and
           by
           all
           so
           variously
           ,
           that
           their
           Example
           has
           given
           me
           the
           confidence
           to
           try
           my
           felf
           in
           this
           Bowe
           of
           Ulysses
           amongst
           the
           Crowd
           of
           Sutors
           ;
           and
           ,
           withal
           ,
           to
           take
           my
           own
           measures
           ,
           in
           aiming
           at
           the
           Mark.
           I
           doubt
           not
           but
           the
           same
           Motive
           has
           prevailed
           with
           all
           of
           us
           in
           this
           attempt
           ;
           I
           mean
           the
           excellency
           of
           the
           Moral
           :
           for
           the
           chief
           Persons
           represented
           ,
           were
           famous
           Patterns
           of
           unlawful
           Love
           ;
           and
           their
           end
           accordingly
           was
           unfortunate
           .
           All
           reasonable
           Men
           have
           long
           since
           concluded
           ,
           That
           the
           Heroe
           of
           the
           Poem
           ,
           ought
           not
           to
           be
           a
           Character
           of
           perfect
           Virtue
           ,
           for
           ,
           then
           ,
           he
           could
           not
           ,
           without
           injustice
           ,
           be
           made
           unhappy
           ;
           nor
           yet
           altogether
           wicked
           ,
           because
           he
           could
           not
           then
           be
           pitied
           :
           I
           have
           therefore
           steer'd
           the
           middle
           course
           ;
           and
           have
           drawn
           the
           character
           of
           Anthony
           as
           favourably
           as
           
             Plutarch
             ,
             Appian
          
           ,
           and
           
             Dion
             Cassius
          
           wou'd
           give
           me
           leave
           :
           the
           like
           I
           have
           observ'd
           in
           Cleopatra
           .
           That
           which
           is
           wanting
           to
           work
           up
           the
           pity
           to
           a
           greater
           heighth
           ,
           was
           not
           afforded
           me
           by
           the
           story
           :
           for
           the
           crimes
           of
           Love
           which
           they
           both
           committed
           ,
           were
           not
           occasioned
           by
           any
           necessity
           ,
           or
           fatal
           ignorance
           ,
           but
           were
           wholly
           voluntary
           ;
           since
           our
           passions
           are
           ,
           or
           ought
           to
           be
           ,
           within
           our
           power
           .
           The
           Fabrick
           of
           the
           Play
           is
           regular
           enough
           ,
           as
           to
           the
           inferior
           parts
           of
           it
           ;
           and
           the
           Unities
           of
           Time
           ,
           Place
           and
           Action
           ,
           more
           exactly
           observ'd
           ,
           than
           ,
           perhaps
           ,
           the
           English
           Theater
           requires
           .
           Particularly
           ,
           the
           Action
           is
           so
           much
           one
           ,
           that
           it
           is
           the
           only
           of
           the
           kind
           without
           Episode
           ,
           or
           Underplot
           ;
           every
           Scene
           in
           the
           Tragedy
           conducing
           to
           the
           main
           design
           ,
           and
           every
           Act
           concluding
           with
           a
           turn
           of
           it
           .
           The
           greatest
           error
           in
           the
           contrivance
           seems
           to
           be
           in
           the
           person
           of
           Octavia
           :
           For
           ,
           though
           I
           might
           use
           the
           privilege
           of
           a
           Poet
           ,
           to
           introduce
           her
           into
           Alexandria
           ,
           yet
           I
           had
           not
           enough
           consider'd
           ,
           that
           the
           compassion
           she
           mov'd
           to
           her self
           and
           Children
           ,
           was
           destructive
           to
           that
           which
           I
           reserv'd
           for
           Anthony
           and
           Cleopatra
           ;
           whose
           mutual
           love
           being
           founded
           upon
           vice
           ,
           must
           lessen
           the
           favour
           of
           the
           Audience
           to
           them
           ,
           when
           Virtue
           and
           Innocence
           were
           oppress'd
           by
           it
           .
           And
           ,
           though
           I
           justified
           Anthony
           in
           some
           measure
           ,
           by
           making
           
           Octavia's
           departure
           ,
           to
           proceed
           wholly
           from
           her self
           ;
           yet
           the
           force
           of
           the
           first
           Machine
           still
           remain'd
           ;
           and
           the
           dividing
           of
           pity
           ,
           like
           the
           cutting
           of
           a
           River
           into
           many
           Channels
           ,
           abated
           the
           strength
           of
           the
           natural
           Stream
           .
           But
           this
           is
           an
           Objection
           which
           none
           of
           my
           Criticks
           have
           urg'd
           against
           me
           ;
           and
           therefore
           I
           might
           have
           let
           it
           pass
           ,
           if
           I
           could
           have
           resolv'd
           to
           have
           been
           partial
           to
           my self
           .
           The
           faults
           my
           Enemies
           have
           found
           ,
           are
           rather
           cavils
           concerning
           little
           ,
           and
           not
           essential
           Decencies
           ;
           which
           a
           Master
           of
           the
           Ceremonies
           may
           decide
           betwixt
           us
           .
           The
           French
           Poets
           ,
           I
           confess
           ,
           are
           strict
           Observers
           of
           these
           Punctilio's
           :
           They
           would
           not
           ,
           for
           example
           ,
           have
           suffer'd
           Cleopatra
           and
           Octavia
           to
           have
           met
           ;
           or
           if
           they
           had
           met
           ,
           there
           must
           only
           have
           pass'd
           betwixt
           them
           some
           cold
           civilities
           ,
           but
           no
           eagerness
           
           of
           repartée
           ,
           for
           fear
           of
           offending
           against
           the
           greatness
           of
           their
           Characters
           ,
           and
           the
           modesty
           of
           their
           Sex.
           This
           Objection
           I
           foresaw
           ,
           and
           at
           the
           same
           time
           contemn'd
           :
           for
           I
           judg'd
           it
           both
           natural
           and
           probable
           ,
           that
           Octavia
           ,
           proud
           of
           her
           new-gain'd
           Conquest
           ,
           would
           search
           out
           Cleopatra
           to
           triumph
           over
           her
           ;
           and
           that
           Cleopatra
           ,
           thus
           attack'd
           ,
           was
           not
           of
           a
           spirit
           to
           shun
           the
           encounter
           :
           and
           't
           is
           not
           unlikely
           ,
           that
           two
           exasperated
           Rivals
           should
           use
           such
           Satyr
           as
           I
           have
           put
           into
           their
           mouths
           ;
           for
           after
           all
           ,
           though
           the
           one
           were
           a
           Roman
           ,
           and
           the
           other
           a
           Queen
           ,
           they
           were
           both
           Women
           .
           'T
           is
           true
           ,
           some
           actions
           ,
           though
           natural
           ,
           are
           not
           fit
           to
           be
           represented
           ;
           and
           broad
           obscenities
           in
           words
           ,
           ought
           in
           good-manners
           to
           be
           avoided
           :
           expressions
           therefore
           are
           a
           modest
           cloathing
           of
           our
           thoughts
           ,
           as
           Breeches
           and
           Petticoats
           are
           of
           our
           Bodies
           .
           If
           I
           have
           kept
           my self
           within
           the
           bounds
           of
           modesty
           ,
           all
           beyond
           it
           is
           but
           nicety
           and
           affectation
           ;
           which
           is
           no
           more
           but
           Modesty
           deprav'd
           into
           a
           Vice
           :
           they
           betray
           themselves
           who
           are
           too
           quick
           of
           apprehension
           in
           such
           cases
           ,
           and
           leave
           all
           r●…asonable
           Men
           to
           imagine
           worse
           of
           them
           ,
           than
           of
           the
           Poet.
           
        
         
           Honest
           Montaigne
           goes
           yet
           farther
           :
           
             Nous
             ne
             sommes
             que
             ceremonie
             ;
             la
             ceremonie
             n●…s
             us
             emporte
             ,
             &
             laissons
             la
             substance
             des
             choses
             :
             Nous
             nous
             tenons
             aux
             b●…ches
             ,
             &
             abandonnons
             le
             tronc
             &
             le
             corps
             .
             Nous
             avons
             appris
             aux
             Dames
             de
             rougir
             ,
             oyans
             seulement
             no●…nmer
             ce
             qu'
             elles
             ne
             craignent
             aucunement
             〈◊〉
             :
             Nous
             n'esons
             appeller
             a
             droict
             nos
             membres
             ,
             &
             ne
             craignons
             par
             de
             les
             employer
             a
             toute
             sorte
             de
             debauche
             .
             La
             ceremonie
             nous
             defend
             d'exprimer
             par
             paroles
             les
             choses
             licites
             &
             naturelles
             ,
             &
             nous
             l'en
             croyons
             ;
             la
             raison
             nous
             defend
             de
             n'en
             faire
             point
             d'illicites
             &
             mauvaises
             ,
             &
             personne
             ne
             l'en
             croid
             .
          
           My
           comfort
           is
           ,
           that
           by
           this
           opinion
           my
           Enemies
           are
           but
           sucking
           Criticks
           ,
           who
           wou'd
           fain
           be
           nibbling
           ere
           their
           Teeth
           are
           come
           .
        
         
           Yet
           ;
           in
           this
           nicety
           of
           manners
           does
           the
           excellency
           of
           French
           Poetry
           consist
           :
           their
           Heroes
           are
           the
           most
           civil
           people
           breathing
           ;
           but
           their
           good
           breeding
           seldom
           extends
           to
           a
           word
           of
           sense
           :
           All
           their
           Wit
           is
           in
           their
           Ceremony
           ;
           they
           want
           the
           Genius
           which
           animates
           our
           Stage
           ;
           and
           therefore
           't
           is
           but
           necessary
           when
           they
           cannot
           please
           ,
           that
           they
           should
           take
           care
           not
           to
           offend
           .
           But
           ,
           as
           the
           civillest
           Man
           in
           the
           company
           is
           commonly
           the
           dullest
           ,
           so
           these
           Authors
           ,
           while
           they
           are
           afraid
           to
           make
           you
           laugh
           or
           cry
           ,
           out
           of
           pure
           good
           manners
           ,
           make
           you
           sleep
           .
           They
           are
           so
           careful
           not
           to
           exasperate
           a
           Critick
           ,
           that
           they
           never
           leave
           him
           any
           work
           ;
           so
           busie
           with
           the
           Broom
           ,
           and
           make
           so
           clean
           a
           riddance
           ,
           that
           there
           is
           little
           left
           either
           for
           censure
           or
           for
           praise
           :
           for
           no
           part
           of
           a
           Poem
           is
           worth
           our
           discommending
           ,
           where
           the
           whole
           is
           insipid
           ;
           as
           when
           we
           have
           once
           tasted
           of
           pall'd
           Wine
           ,
           we
           stay
           not
           to
           examine
           it
           Glass
           by
           Glass
           .
           But
           while
           they
           affect
           to
           shine
           in
           ttifles
           ,
           they
           are
           often
           careless
           in
           essentials
           .
           Thus
           their
           Hippolitus
           is
           so
           scrupulous
           in
           point
           of
           decency
           ,
           that
           he
           will
           rather
           expose
           himself
           to
           death
           ,
           than
           accuse
           his
           Stepmother
           to
           his
           Father
           ;
           and
           my
           Criticks
           I
           am
           sure
           will
           commend
           him
           for
           it
           :
           but
           we
           of
           grosser
           apprehensions
           ,
           are
           apt
           to
           think
           that
           this
           excess
           of
           generosity
           ,
           is
           not
           practicable
           but
           with
           Fools
           and
           Madmen
           .
           This
           was
           good
           manners
           with
           a
           vengeance
           ;
           and
           the
           Audience
           is
           like
           to
           be
           much
           concern'd
           at
           the
           misfortunes
           of
           this
           admirable
           Heroe
           :
           but
           take
           Hippolitus
           out
           of
           his
           Poetick
           Fit
           ,
           and
           
           I
           suppose
           he
           would
           think
           it
           a
           wiser
           part
           ,
           to
           set
           the
           Saddle
           on
           the
           right
           Horse
           ,
           and
           chuse
           rather
           to
           live
           with
           the
           reputation
           of
           a
           plain-spoken
           honest
           Man
           ,
           than
           to
           die
           with
           the
           infamy
           of
           an
           incestuous
           Villain
           .
           In
           the
           mean
           time
           we
           may
           take
           notice
           ,
           that
           where
           the
           Poet
           ought
           to
           have
           preserv'd
           the
           character
           as
           it
           was
           deliver'd
           to
           us
           by
           Antiquity
           ,
           when
           he
           should
           have
           given
           us
           the
           Picture
           of
           a
           rough
           young
           Man
           ,
           of
           the
           Amazonian
           strain
           ,
           a
           jolly
           Huntsman
           ,
           and
           both
           by
           his
           profession
           and
           his
           early
           rising
           a
           Mortal
           Enemy
           to
           Love
           ,
           he
           has
           chosen
           to
           give
           him
           the
           turn
           of
           Gallantry
           ,
           sent
           him
           to
           travel
           from
           Athens
           to
           Paris
           ,
           taught
           him
           to
           make
           Love
           and
           transform'd
           the
           Hipp●…litus
           of
           Euripides
           into
           Monsieur
           Hippolite
           .
           I
           should
           not
           have
           troubled
           my self
           thus
           far
           with
           French
           Poets
           ,
           but
           that
           I
           find
           our
           Chedreux
           Criticks
           wholly
           form
           their
           Judgments
           by
           them
           .
           But
           for
           my
           part
           ,
           I
           desire
           to
           be
           try'd
           by
           the
           Laws
           of
           my
           own
           Country
           ,
           for
           it
           see●…s
           unjust
           to
           me
           ,
           that
           the
           French
           should
           prescribe
           here
           ,
           till
           they
           have
           〈◊〉
           Our
           little
           Sonnettiers
           who
           follow
           them
           ,
           have
           too
           narrow
           〈◊〉
           〈◊〉
           or
           Poetry
           .
           Poets
           themselves
           are
           the
           most
           proper
           ,
           though
           I
           conclude
           〈◊〉
           the
           only
           Criticks
           .
           But
           till
           some
           Genius
           as
           Universal
           ,
           as
           Aristotle
           ,
           shall
           arise
           ,
           who
           can
           penetrate
           into
           all
           Arts
           and
           Sciences
           ,
           without
           the
           practice
           of
           them
           ,
           I
           shall
           think
           it
           reasonable
           ,
           that
           the
           Judgment
           of
           an
           Artificer
           in
           his
           own
           Art
           should
           be
           preferable
           to
           the
           opinion
           of
           another
           Man
           ;
           at
           least
           where
           he
           is
           not
           brib'd
           by
           interest
           ,
           or
           prejudic'd
           by
           malice
           :
           and
           this
           ,
           I
           ●…uppose
           ,
           is
           manifest
           by
           plain
           induction
           :
           For
           ,
           first
           ,
           the
           Crowd
           cannot
           be
           presum'd
           to
           have
           more
           than
           a
           gross
           instinct
           ,
           of
           what
           pleases
           or
           displeases
           them
           :
           every
           Man
           will
           grant
           me
           this
           ;
           but
           then
           ,
           by
           a
           particular
           kindness
           to
           himself
           ,
           he
           draws
           his
           own
           stake
           first
           ,
           and
           will
           be
           distinguish'd
           from
           the
           multitude
           ,
           of
           which
           other
           Men
           may
           think
           him
           one
           .
           But
           ,
           if
           I
           come
           closer
           to
           those
           who
           are
           allow'd
           for
           witty
           Men
           ,
           either
           by
           the
           advantage
           of
           their
           quality
           ,
           or
           by
           common
           fame
           ,
           and
           affirm
           that
           neither
           are
           they
           qualified
           to
           decide
           Sovereignly
           ,
           concerning
           Poetry
           ,
           I
           shall
           yet
           have
           a
           strong
           party
           of
           my
           opinion
           ;
           for
           most
           of
           them
           severally
           will
           exclude
           the
           rest
           ,
           either
           from
           the
           number
           of
           witty
           Men
           ,
           or
           at
           least
           of
           able
           Judges
           .
           But
           here
           again
           they
           are
           all
           indulgent
           to
           themselves
           :
           and
           every
           one
           who
           believes
           himself
           a
           Wit
           ,
           that
           is
           ,
           every
           Man
           ,
           will
           pretend
           at
           the
           same
           time
           to
           a
           right
           of
           judging
           .
           But
           to
           press
           it
           yet
           farther
           ,
           there
           are
           many
           witty
           Men
           ,
           but
           few
           Poets
           ,
           neither
           have
           all
           Poets
           a
           taste
           of
           Tragedy
           .
           And
           this
           is
           the
           Rock
           on
           which
           they
           are
           daily
           splitting
           .
           Poetry
           ,
           which
           is
           a
           Picture
           of
           Nature
           ,
           must
           generally
           please
           :
           but
           't
           is
           not
           be
           understood
           that
           all
           parts
           of
           is
           must
           please
           every
           Man
           ;
           therefore
           is
           not
           Tragedy
           to
           be
           judg'd
           by
           a
           witty
           Man
           ,
           whose
           taste
           is
           only
           confin'd
           to
           Comedy
           .
           Nor
           is
           every
           Man
           who
           loves
           Tragedy
           a
           sufficient
           Judge
           of
           it
           :
           he
           must
           understand
           the
           excellencies
           of
           it
           too
           ,
           or
           he
           will
           only
           prove
           a
           blind
           Admirer
           ,
           not
           a
           Critick
           .
           From
           hence
           it
           comes
           that
           so
           many
           Satyrs
           on
           Poets
           ,
           and
           censures
           of
           their
           Writings
           ,
           fly
           abroad
           .
           Men
           of
           pleasant
           Conversation
           ,
           (
           at
           least
           esteem'd
           so
           )
           and
           indu'd
           with
           a
           trifling
           kind
           of
           Fancy
           ,
           perhaps
           help'd
           out
           with
           some
           smattering
           of
           Latine
           ,
           are
           ambitious
           to
           distinguish
           themselves
           from
           the
           Herd
           of
           Gentlemen
           ,
           by
           their
           Poetry
           ;
        
         
           
             Rarus
             enim
             fermè
             sensus
             communis
             in
             illâ
          
        
         
           F●…rtunâ
           .
        
         
         
         
         
         
         
           And
           is
           not
           this
           a
           wretched
           affectation
           ,
           not
           to
           be
           contented
           with
           what
           Fortune
           has
           done
           for
           them
           ,
           and
           sit
           down
           quietly
           with
           their
           Estates
           ,
           but
           they
           must
           call
           their
           Wits
           in
           question
           ,
           and
           needlesly
           expose
           their
           nakedness
           to
           publick
           view
           ?
           Not
           considering
           that
           they
           are
           not
           to
           expect
           the
           same
           approbation
           from
           sober
           Men
           ,
           which
           they
           have
           found
           from
           their
           flatterers
           after
           the
           third
           Bottle
           ?
           If
           a
           little
           glittering
           in
           discourse
           has
           pass'd
           them
           on
           us
           for
           witty
           Men
           ,
           where
           was
           the
           necessity
           of
           undeceiving
           the
           World
           ?
           Would
           a
           Man
           who
           has
           an
           ill
           Title
           to
           an
           Estate
           ,
           but
           yet
           is
           in
           possession
           of
           it
           ,
           would
           he
           bring
           it
           of
           his
           own
           accord
           ,
           to
           be
           try'd
           at
           Westminster
           ?
           We
           who
           write
           ,
           if
           we
           want
           the
           Talent
           ,
           yet
           have
           the
           excuse
           that
           we
           do
           it
           for
           a
           poor
           subsistence
           ;
           but
           what
           can
           be
           urg'd
           in
           their
           defence
           ,
           who
           not
           having
           the
           Vocation
           of
           Poverty
           to
           scribble
           out
           of
           mere
           wantonness
           ,
           take
           pains
           to
           make
           themselves
           ridiculous
           ?
           Horace
           was
           certainly
           in
           the
           right
           ,
           where
           he
           said
           ,
           That
           
             no
             Man
             is
             satisfied
             with
             his
             own
             condition
             .
          
           A
           Poet
           is
           not
           pleas'd
           because
           he
           is
           not
           rich
           ;
           and
           the
           Rich
           are
           discontented
           ,
           because
           the
           Poets
           will
           not
           admit
           them
           of
           their
           number
           .
           Thus
           the
           case
           is
           hard
           with
           Writers
           :
           if
           they
           succeed
           not
           ,
           they
           must
           starve
           ;
           and
           if
           they
           do
           ,
           some
           malicious
           Satyr
           is
           prepar'd
           to
           level
           them
           for
           daring
           to
           please
           without
           their
           leave
           .
           But
           while
           they
           are
           so
           eager
           to
           destroy
           the
           fame
           of
           others
           ,
           their
           ambition
           is
           manifest
           in
           their
           concernment
           :
           some
           Poem
           of
           their
           own
           is
           to
           be
           produc'd
           ,
           and
           the
           Slaves
           are
           to
           be
           laid
           flat
           with
           their
           faces
           on
           the
           ground
           ,
           that
           the
           Monarch
           may
           appear
           in
           the
           greater
           Majesty
           .
        
         
           Dionysius
           and
           Nero
           had
           the
           same
           longings
           ,
           but
           with
           all
           their
           power
           they
           cou'd
           never
           bring
           their
           business
           well
           about
           .
           'T
           is
           true
           ,
           they
           proclaim'd
           themselves
           Poets
           by
           sound
           of
           Trumpet
           ;
           and
           Poets
           they
           were
           upon
           pain
           of
           death
           to
           any
           Man
           who
           durst
           call
           them
           otherwise
           .
           The
           Audience
           had
           a
           fine
           time
           on
           't
           ,
           you
           may
           imagine
           ;
           they
           sate
           in
           a
           bodily
           fear
           ,
           and
           look'd
           as
           demurely
           as
           they
           could
           :
           for
           't
           was
           a
           hanging
           matter
           to
           laugh
           unseasonably
           ;
           and
           the
           Tyrants
           were
           suspicious
           ,
           as
           they
           had
           reason
           ,
           that
           their
           Subjects
           had
           'em
           in
           the
           wind
           ;
           so
           ,
           every
           man
           in
           his
           own
           defence
           set
           as
           good
           a
           face
           upon
           the
           business
           as
           he
           could
           :
           'T
           was
           known
           before-hand
           that
           the
           Monarchs
           were
           to
           be
           Crown'd
           Laureats
           ;
           but
           when
           the
           Shew
           was
           over
           ,
           and
           an
           honest
           Man
           was
           suffer'd
           to
           depart
           quietly
           ,
           he
           took
           out
           his
           Laughter
           which
           he
           had
           stifled
           ;
           with
           a
           firm
           resolution
           never
           more
           to
           see
           an
           Emperor's
           Play
           ,
           though
           he
           had
           been
           ten
           years
           a
           making
           it
           .
           In
           the
           mean
           time
           ,
           the
           true
           Poets
           were
           they
           who
           made
           the
           best
           Markets
           ,
           for
           they
           had
           Wit
           enough
           to
           yield
           the
           Prize
           with
           a
           good
           grace
           ,
           and
           not
           contend
           with
           him
           who
           had
           thirty
           ●…egions
           :
           They
           were
           sure
           to
           be
           rewarded
           if
           they
           confess'd
           themselves
           bad
           Writers
           ,
           and
           that
           was
           somewhat
           better
           than
           to
           be
           Martyrs
           for
           their
           Reputation
           .
           
           Lucan's
           example
           was
           enough
           to
           teach
           them
           manners
           ;
           and
           after
           he
           was
           put
           to
           Death
           ,
           for
           overcoming
           Nero
           ,
           the
           Emperor
           carried
           it
           without
           dispute
           for
           the
           best
           Poet
           in
           his
           Dominions
           :
           No
           man
           was
           ambitious
           of
           that
           grinning
           Honour
           ;
           for
           if
           he
           heard
           the
           malicious
           Trumpeter
           proclaiming
           his
           Name
           before
           his
           Betters
           ,
           he
           knew
           there
           was
           but
           one
           way
           with
           him
           .
           Mecoenas
           took
           another
           Course
           ,
           and
           we
           know
           he
           was
           more
           than
           a
           great
           Man
           ,
           for
           he
           was
           witty
           too
           :
           
           but
           finding
           himself
           far
           gone
           in
           Poetry
           ,
           which
           Seneca
           assures
           us
           was
           not
           his
           Talent
           ,
           he
           thought
           it
           his
           best
           way
           to
           be
           well
           with
           Virgil
           and
           with
           Horace
           ;
           that
           at
           least
           he
           might
           be
           a
           Poet
           at
           the
           second
           hand
           ;
           and
           we
           see
           how
           happily
           it
           has
           succeeded
           with
           him
           ;
           for
           his
           own
           bad
           Poetry
           is
           forgotten
           ,
           and
           their
           Panegyricks
           of
           him
           still
           remain
           .
           But
           they
           who
           should
           be
           our
           Patrons
           ,
           are
           for
           no
           such
           expensive
           ways
           to
           fame
           :
           they
           have
           much
           of
           the
           Poetry
           of
           Mecoenas
           ,
           but
           little
           of
           his
           Liberality
           .
           They
           are
           for
           persecuting
           Horace
           and
           Virgil
           ,
           in
           the
           Persons
           of
           their
           Successours
           ,
           (
           for
           such
           is
           every
           Man
           ,
           who
           has
           any
           part
           of
           their
           Soul
           and
           Fire
           ,
           though
           in
           a
           less
           degree
           .
           )
           Some
           of
           their
           little
           Zanies
           yet
           go
           farther
           ;
           for
           they
           are
           Persecutors
           even
           of
           Horace
           himself
           ,
           as
           far
           as
           they
           are
           able
           ,
           by
           their
           ignorant
           and
           vile
           Imitations
           of
           him
           ;
           by
           making
           an
           unjust
           use
           of
           his
           Authority
           ,
           and
           turning
           his
           Artillery
           against
           his
           Friends
           .
           But
           how
           would
           he
           disdain
           to
           be
           Copyed
           by
           such
           hands
           !
           I
           dare
           answer
           for
           him
           ,
           he
           would
           be
           more
           uneasie
           in
           their
           Company
           ,
           than
           he
           was
           with
           Crispinus
           their
           Forefather
           in
           the
           
             Holy
             Way
          
           ;
           and
           would
           no
           more
           have
           allow'd
           them
           a
           place
           amongst
           the
           Criticks
           ,
           than
           he
           would
           Demetrius
           the
           Mimique
           ,
           and
           Tigellius
           the
           Buffoon
           ;
        
         
           
             
               —
               Demetri
               ,
               teque
               Tigelli
            
             ,
          
           
             
               Discipulorum
               inter
               jubeo
               plorare
               Cathedras
            
             .
          
        
         
           With
           what
           scorn
           would
           he
           look
           down
           on
           such
           miserable
           Translators
           ,
           who
           make
           Doggrel
           of
           his
           Latine
           ,
           mistake
           his
           meaning
           ,
           misapply
           his
           Censures
           ,
           and
           often
           contradict
           their
           own
           ?
           He
           is
           fix'd
           as
           a
           Land-Mark
           to
           set
           out
           the
           bounds
           of
           Poetry
           ,
        
         
           
             
               —
               Saxum
               ,
               antiquum
               ingens
            
          
           
             
               Limes
               agro
               positus
               litem
               ut
               discerneret
               arvis
               :
            
          
        
         
           But
           other
           Arms
           than
           theirs
           ,
           and
           other
           Sinews
           are
           requir'd
           ,
           to
           raise
           the
           weight
           of
           such
           an
           Author
           ;
           and
           when
           they
           would
           toss
           him
           against
           their
           Enemies
           ,
        
         
           
             
               Genua
               labant
               ,
               gelidus
               concrevit
               frigore
               sanguis
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Tum
               lapis
               ipse
               ,
               viri
               vacuum
               per
               inane
               volutus
            
          
           
             
               Nec
               spatium
               evasit
               totum
               ,
               nec
               pertulit
               ictum
               .
            
          
        
         
           For
           my
           part
           ,
           I
           would
           wish
           no
           other
           revenge
           ,
           either
           for
           my self
           or
           the
           rest
           of
           the
           Poets
           ,
           from
           this
           Rhyming
           Judge
           of
           the
           Twelve-penny
           Gallery
           ,
           this
           Legitimate
           Son
           of
           Sternhold
           ,
           than
           that
           he
           would
           subscribe
           his
           Name
           to
           his
           Censure
           ,
           or
           (
           not
           to
           tax
           him
           beyond
           his
           Learning
           )
           set
           his
           Mark
           :
           for
           shou'd
           he
           own
           himself
           publickly
           ,
           and
           come
           from
           behind
           the
           Lyons
           Skin
           ,
           they
           whom
           he
           condemns
           wou'd
           be
           thankful
           to
           him
           ,
           they
           whom
           he
           praises
           wou'd
           chuse
           to
           be
           Condemned
           ;
           and
           the
           Magistrat●…
           whom
           he
           has
           Elected
           ,
           wou'd
           modestly
           withdraw
           from
           their
           Employment
           ,
           to
           avoid
           the
           scandal
           of
           his
           Nomination
           .
           The
           sharpness
           of
           ●…is
           Satyr
           ,
           next
           to
           himself
           ,
           falls
           most
           heavily
           on
           his
           Friends
           ,
           and
           they
           ought
           never
           to
           forgive
           him
           for
           commending
           them
           perpetually
           the
           wrong
           way
           ,
           and
           sometimes
           by
           contraries
           .
           If
           he
           have
           a
           Friend
           whose
           hastiness
           in
           writing
           is
           his
           greatest
           fault
           ,
           Horace
           wou'd
           have
           taught
           him
           to
           〈◊〉
           minc'd
           the
           matter
           ,
           and
           to
           have
           call'd
           it
           read●…ness
           of
           thought
           ,
           and
           a
           flowing
           Fancy
           ;
           for
           Friendship
           will
           allow
           a
           Man
           to
           Christen
           an
           imperfection
           by
           the
           Name
           of
           some
           Neighbour
           virtue
           :
        
         
           
           
             Vellem
             in
             amicitiâ
             sic
             erraremus
             ;
             &
             isti
          
           
             Errori
             ,
             nomen
             virtus
             poss●…sset
             honestum
             .
          
        
         
           But
           he
           would
           never
           have
           allow'd
           him
           to
           have
           call'd
           a
           slow
           Man
           hasty
           ,
           or
           a
           hasty
           Writer
           a
           slow
           Drudge
           ,
           as
           Juvenal
           explains
           it
           :
        
         
           
             —
             —
             Canibus
             pigris
             ,
             scabieque
             vetust●…
          
           
             Levibus
             ,
             &
             siccae
             lambentibus
             or
             a
             lueernae
          
           
             Nomen
             erit
             ,
             Pa●…dus
             ,
             Tygris
             ,
             Leo
             ;
             si
             quid
             adhuc
             est
             ,
          
           
             Quod
             fremit
             in
             terris
             violentius
             .
          
        
         
           Yet
           Lucretius
           Laughs
           at
           a
           foolish
           Lover
           ,
           even
           for
           excusing
           the
           Imperfections
           of
           his
           Mistress
           :
        
         
           
             Nigra
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             est
             ,
             immunda
             &
             foetida
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             .
          
           
             Balba
             loqui
             non
             quit
             ,
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ;
             muta
             pudens
             est
             ,
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           But
           to
           drive
           it
           ,
           
             ad
             Aethiopem
             Cygnum
          
           is
           not
           to
           be
           indur'd
           .
           I
           leave
           him
           to
           interpret
           this
           by
           the
           Benefit
           of
           his
           French
           Version
           on
           the
           other
           side
           ,
           and
           without
           farther
           considering
           him
           ,
           than
           I
           have
           the
           rest
           of
           my
           illiterate
           Censors
           ,
           whom
           I
           have
           disdain'd
           to
           Answer
           ,
           because
           they
           are
           not
           qualified
           for
           Judges
           .
           It
           remains
           that
           I
           acquaint
           the
           Reader
           ,
           that
           I
           have
           endeavoured
           in
           this
           Play
           to
           follow
           the
           practice
           of
           the
           Ancients
           ,
           who
           ,
           as
           Mr.
           Rymer
           has
           judiciously
           observ'd
           ,
           are
           and
           ought
           to
           be
           our
           Masters
           .
           Horace
           likewise
           gives
           it
           for
           a
           Rule
           in
           his
           Art
           of
           Poetry
           ,
        
         
           
             —
             —
             Vos
             exemplaria
             Graeca
          
           
             Nocturnâ
             versate
             manu
             ,
             versate
             diurnâ
             .
          
        
         
           Yet
           ,
           though
           their
           Models
           are
           regular
           ,
           they
           are
           too
           little
           〈◊〉
           〈◊〉
           lish
           Tragedy
           ;
           which
           requires
           to
           be
           built
           in
           a
           larger
           Compa●…
           〈◊〉
           could
           give
           an
           instance
           in
           the
           
             Oedipus
             Tyrannus
          
           ,
           which
           was
           the
           Master-piece
           of
           Sophocles
           ;
           but
           I
           reserve
           it
           for
           a
           more
           fit
           occasion
           ,
           which
           I
           hope
           to
           have
           hereafter
           .
           In
           my
           Stile
           I
           have
           profess'd
           to
           imitate
           ●…e
           Divine
           Shakespeare
           ;
           which
           that
           I
           might
           perform
           more
           freely
           ,
           I
           have
           disincumber'd
           my self
           from
           Rhyme
           .
           Not
           that
           I
           condemn
           my
           former
           way
           ,
           but
           that
           this
           is
           more
           proper
           to
           my
           present
           Purpose
           .
           I
           hope
           I
           need
           not
           to
           explain
           my self
           ,
           that
           I
           have
           not
           Copy'd
           my
           Author
           servile●…y
           :
           Words
           and
           Phrases
           must
           of
           necessity
           receive
           a
           Change
           in
           succeeding
           Ages
           :
           but
           't
           is
           almost
           a
           Miracle
           that
           much
           of
           his
           Language
           remains
           so
           pure
           ;
           and
           that
           he
           who
           began
           Dramatick
           Poetry
           amongst
           us
           ,
           untaught
           by
           any
           ,
           and
           ,
           as
           
             Ben.
             Johnson
          
           tells
           us
           ,
           without
           Learning
           ,
           should
           by
           the
           force
           of
           his
           own
           Genius
           perform
           so
           much
           ,
           that
           in
           a
           manner
           he
           has
           left
           no
           Praise
           for
           any
           who
           come
           after
           him
           .
           The
           occasion
           is
           fair
           ,
           and
           the
           Subject
           would
           be
           pleasant
           to
           handle
           the
           difference
           of
           Stiles
           betwixt
           him
           and
           Fletcher
           ,
           and
           wherein
           ,
           and
           how
           far
           they
           are
           both
           to
           be
           imitated
           .
           But
           since
           I
           must
           not
           be
           over-consident
           of
           my
           own
           performance
           after
           him
           ,
           it
           will
           be
           prudence
           in
           me
           to
           be
           silent
           .
           Yet
           I
           hope
           I
           may
           affirm
           ,
           and
           without
           vanity
           ,
           that
           by
           imitating
           him
           ,
           I
           have
           excell'd
           my self
           throughout
           the
           Play
           ;
           and
           particularly
           ,
           that
           I
           prefer
           the
           Scene
           betwixt
           Anthony
           and
           Ventidius
           in
           the
           first
           Act
           ,
           to
           any
           thing
           which
           I
           have
           written
           in
           this
           kind
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           PROLOGUE
           to
           Anthony
           and
           Cleopatra
           .
        
         
           
             WHat
             Flocks
             of
             Criticks
             hover
             here
             to
             day
             ,
          
           
             As
             Vultures
             wait
             on
             Armies
             for
             their
             Prey
             ,
          
           
             All
             gaping
             for
             the
             Carcass
             of
             a
             Play
             !
          
           
             With
             Croaking
             Notes
             they
             bode
             some
             dire
             event
             ;
          
           
             And
             follow
             dying
             Poets
             by
             the
             scent
             .
          
           
             Ours
             gives
             himself
             for
             gone
             ;
             y'have
             watch'd
             your
             time
             !
          
           
             He
             fights
             this
             day
             unarm'd
             ;
             without
             his
             Rhyme
             .
          
           
             And
             brings
             a
             Tale
             which
             often
             has
             been
             told
             ;
          
           
             As
             sad
             as
             
             Dido's
             ;
             and
             almost
             as
             old
             .
          
           
             His
             Heroe
             ,
             whom
             you
             Wits
             his
             Bully
             call
             ,
          
           
             Bates
             of
             his
             mettle
             ;
             and
             scarce
             rants
             at
             all
             :
          
           
             He
             's
             somewhat
             lewd
             ;
             but
             a
             well-meaning
             mind
             ;
          
           
             Weeps
             much
             ;
             fights
             little
             ;
             but
             is
             wond'rous
             kind
             .
          
           
             In
             short
             ,
             a
             Pattern
             ,
             and
             Companion
             fit
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             thee
             keeping
             Tonyes
             of
             the
             Pit.
          
           
             I
             cou'd
             name
             more
             ;
             A
             Wife
             ,
             and
             Mistress
             too
             ;
          
           
             Both
             (
             to
             be
             plain
             )
             too
             good
             for
             most
             of
             you
             :
          
           
             The
             Wife
             well-natur'd
             ,
             and
             the
             Mistress
             true
             .
          
           
             Now
             ,
             Poets
             ,
             if
             your
             fame
             has
             been
             his
             care
             ;
          
           
             Allow
             him
             all
             the
             Candour
             you
             can
             spare
             .
          
           
             A
             brave
             Man
             scorns
             to
             quarrel
             once
             a
             day
             ;
          
           
             Like
             Hectors
             ,
             in
             at
             every
             petty
             fray
             ,
          
           
             Let
             those
             find
             fault
             whose
             Wit
             's
             so
             very
             small
             ,
          
           
             They
             've
             need
             to
             show
             that
             they
             can
             think
             at
             all
             :
          
           
             Errours
             like
             Straws
             upon
             the
             surface
             flow
             ;
          
           
             He
             who
             would
             search
             for
             Pearls
             must
             dive
             below
             .
          
           
             Fops
             may
             have
             leave
             to
             level
             all
             they
             can
             ;
          
           
             As
             Pigmies
             wou'd
             be
             glad
             to
             lopp
             a
             Man.
          
           
             Half-Wits
             are
             Fleas
             ;
             so
             little
             and
             so
             light
             ;
          
           
             We
             scarce
             cou'd
             know
             they
             live
             ;
             but
             that
             they
             bite
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             as
             the
             Rich
             ,
             when
             tir'd
             with
             daily
             Feasts
             ,
          
           
             For
             change
             ,
             become
             their
             next
             poor
             Tenants
             Ghests
             ;
          
           
             Drink
             hearty
             Draughts
             of
             Ale
             ,
             from
             plain
             brown
             Bowls
             ,
          
           
             And
             snatch
             the
             homely
             Rasher
             from
             the
             Coals
             :
          
           
             So
             you
             ,
             retiring
             from
             much
             better
             Cheer
             ,
          
           
             For
             once
             ,
             may
             venture
             to
             do
             penance
             here
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             that
             plenteous
             Autumn
             now
             is
             past
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Grapes
             and
             Peaches
             have
             Indulg'd
             your
             taste
             ,
          
           
             Take
             in
             good
             part
             from
             our
             poor
             Poets
             board
             ,
          
           
             Such
             rivell'd
             Fruits
             as
             Winter
             can
             afford
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           Persons
           Represented
           .
        
         
           
             
               
                  
              
               
                 By
              
            
             
               
                 
                   MArc
                   Anthony
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Hart.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Ventidius
                 ,
                 his
                 General
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Mohun
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Dollabella
                 ,
                 his
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Clarke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Alexas
                 ,
                 the
                 Queens
                 Eunuch
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Goodman
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Serapion
                 ,
                 Priest
                 of
                 Isis
                 ,
                 Servant
                 to
                 Anthony
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Griffin
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Another
                 Priest
                 ,
                 Servant
                 to
                 Anthony
                 ,
              
               
                 Mr.
                 Coysh
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cleopatra
                 ,
                 Queen
                 of
                 Egypt
                 ,
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Boutell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Octavia
                 ,
                 Anthony's
                 Wife
                 ,
              
               
                 Mrs.
                 Corey
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Charmion
                 ,
              
               
                 Cleopatra
                 
                   's
                   Maids
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Iras
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 
                 Anthony's
                 two
                 little
                 Daughters
                 .
              
               
                  
              
            
          
        
         
           Scene
           Alexandria
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           ALL
           for
           LOVE
           ;
           OR
           ,
           THE
           World
           well
           Lost.
           
        
         
           ACT.
           I.
           SCENE
           ,
           
             The
             Temple
             of
          
           Isis.
           
        
         
           Enter
           
             Serapion
             ,
             Myris
          
           ,
           Priests
           of
           Isis.
           
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             POrtents
             and
             Prodigies
             are
             grown
             so
             frequent
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             have
             lost
             their
             Name
             .
             Our
             fruitful
             Nile
          
           
             Flow'd
             e're
             the
             wonted
             Season
             ,
             with
             a
             Torrent
          
           
             So
             unexpected
             ,
             and
             so
             wondrous
             fierce
             ,
          
           
             That
             the
             wild
             Deluge
             overtook
             the
             haste
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             of
             the
             Hinds
             that
             watch'd
             it
             :
             Men
             and
             Beasts
          
           
             Were
             born
             above
             the
             tops
             of
             Trees
             ,
             that
             grew
          
           
             On
             th'
             utmost
             Margin
             of
             the
             Water-mark
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             with
             so
             swift
             an
             Ebb
             ,
             the
             Floud
             drove
             backward
          
           
             It
             slipt
             from
             underneath
             the
             Scaly
             Herd
             :
          
           
             Here
             monstrous
             Phocoe
             panted
             on
             the
             Shore
             ;
          
           
             Forsaken
             Dolphins
             there
             ,
             with
             their
             broad
             Tails
             ,
          
           
             Lay
             lashing
             the
             departing
             Waves
             :
             Hard
             by
             'em
             ,
          
           
             Sea-Horses
             floundring
             in
             the
             slimy
             Mud
             ,
          
           
             Toss'd
             up
             their
             heads
             ,
             and
             dash'd
             the
             ooze
             about
             '
             em
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Alexas
             behind
             them
             .
          
        
         
           
             Myr.
             
          
           
             Avert
             these
             Omens
             ,
             Heav'n
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Last
             night
             ,
             between
             the
             hours
             of
             Twelve
             and
             One
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             lone
             Isle
             o'
             th'
             Temple
             ,
             while
             I
             walk'd
             ,
          
           
             A
             Whirl-wind
             rose
             ,
             that
             ,
             with
             a
             violent
             blast
             ,
          
           
             Shook
             all
             the
             Dome
             :
             the
             Doors
             around
             me
             clap
             ,
          
           
             The
             Iron
             Wicket
             that
             defends
             the
             Vault
             ,
          
           
             Where
             the
             long
             Race
             of
             P●…olomies
             is
             lay'd
             ,
          
           
             Burst
             open
             ,
             and
             disclos'd
             the
             mighty
             dead
             .
          
           
           
             From
             out
             each
             Monument
             ,
             in
             order
             plac'd
             ,
          
           
             An
             Armed
             Ghost
             start
             up
             :
             the
             Boy-King
             last
          
           
             Rear'd
             his
             inglorious
             head
             .
             A
             peal
             of
             groans
          
           
             Then
             follow'd
             ,
             and
             a
             lamentable
             Voice
          
           
             Cry'd
             ,
             Egypt
             is
             no
             more
             .
             My
             blood
             ran
             back
             ,
          
           
             My
             shaking
             Knees
             against
             each
             other
             knock'd
             ;
          
           
             On
             the
             cold
             Pavement
             ,
             down
             I
             fell
             〈◊〉
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             unfinish'd
             left
             the
             horrid
             Scene
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alexas
             shewing
             himself
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             Dream'd
             you
             this
             ?
             or
             ,
             Did
             invent
             the
             Story
             ?
          
           
             To
             frighten
             our
             Egyptian
             Boys
             withal
             ,
          
           
             And
             train
             'em
             up
             betimes
             in
             fear
             of
             Priesthood
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
             I
             saw
             you
             not
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             meant
             my
             words
             should
             reach
             your
             Ears
             ;
             but
             what
          
           
             I
             utter'd
             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
             farther
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             not
             fit
             it
             should
             .
          
           
             Nor
             would
             the
             times
             now
             bear
             it
             ,
             were
             it
             true
             .
          
           
             All
             Southern
             ,
             from
             you
             Hills
             ,
             the
             Roman
             Camp
          
           
             Hangs
             o'er
             us
             black
             and
             threatning
             ,
             like
             a
             Storm
          
           
             Just
             breaking
             on
             our
             Heads
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Our
             faint
             Aegyptians
             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
             't
             is
             past
             recovery
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Yet
             the
             Foe
          
           
             Seems
             not
             to
             press
             the
             Siege
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             there
             's
             the
             wonder
             .
          
           
             Mecoenas
             and
             Agrippa
             ,
             who
             can
             most
          
           
             With
             Caesar
             are
             his
             Foes
             .
             His
             Wife
             Octavia
             ,
          
           
             Driv'n
             from
             his
             House
             ,
             solicites
             her
             Revenge
             ;
          
           
             And
             Dolabella
             ,
             who
             was
             once
             his
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             some
             private
             grudge
             ,
             now
             seeks
             his
             ruine
             :
          
           
             Yet
             still
             War
             seems
             on
             either
             side
             to
             sleep
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             strange
             that
             Antony
             ,
             for
             some
             days
             past
             ,
          
           
             Has
             not
             beheld
             the
             face
             of
             Cleopatra
             ;
          
           
             But
             here
             ,
             in
             Isis
             Temple
             ,
             lives
             retir'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             his
             Heart
             a
             Prey
             to
             black
             despair
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             true
             ;
             and
             we
             much
             fear
             he
             hopes
             by
             absence
          
           
             To
             cure
             his
             mind
             of
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             If
             he
             be
             vanquish'd
             ,
          
           
             Or
             make
             his
             peace
             ,
             Egypt
             is
             doom'd
             to
             be
          
           
           
             A
             Roman
             Province
             ;
             and
             our
             plenteous
             Harvests
          
           
             Must
             then
             redeem
             the
             sca●…eness
             of
             their
             Soil
             .
          
           
             While
             Antony
             stood
             firm
             ,
             our
             Alexandria
          
           
             Rival'd
             proud
             Rome
             (
             Dominions
             other
             Seat
             )
          
           
             And
             fortune
             striding
             ,
             like
             a
             vas●…
             Colossus
             ,
          
           
             Cou'd
             fix
             an
             equal
             foot
             of
             Empire
             here
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Had
             I
             my
             wish
             ,
             these
             〈◊〉
             of
             all
             Nature
          
           
             Who
             Lord
             it
             o'er
             Mankind
             ,
             should
             perish
             ,
             perish
             ,
          
           
             Each
             by
             the
             others
             Sword
             ;
             but
             ,
             since
             our
             Will
          
           
             Is
             lamely
             follow'd
             by
             our
             pow'r
             ,
             we
             must
          
           
             Depend
             on
             one
             ;
             with
             him
             to
             rise
             or
             fall
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             How
             stands
             the
             Queen
             affected
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             she
             dotes
             ,
          
           
             She
             dotes
             ,
             Serapion
             ,
             on
             this
             vanquish'd
             Man
             ,
          
           
             And
             winds
             her self
             about
             his
             mighty
             ruins
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             would
             she
             yet
             forsake
             ,
             yet
             yield
             him
             up
             ,
          
           
             This
             hunted
             Prey
             ,
             to
             his
             pursuers
             hands
             ,
          
           
             She
             might
             preserve
             us
             all
             ;
             but
             't
             is
             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
             Center
             .
             Well
             ,
             you
             know
          
           
             The
             state
             of
             things
             ;
             no
             more
             of
             your
             ill
             Omens
             ,
          
           
             And
             black
             Prognosticks
             ;
             labour
             to
             confirm
          
           
             The
             Peoples
             Hearts
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Ventidius
             ,
             talking
             aside
             with
             a
             Gentleman
             of
             Antony's
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             These
             Romans
             will
             o're
             hear
             us
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             Who
             's
             that
             Stranger
             ?
             By
             his
             warlike
             port
             ,
          
           
             His
             fierce
             demeanor
             ,
             and
             erected
             look
             ,
          
           
             He
             's
             of
             no
             vulgar
             note
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             't
             is
             Ventidius
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Emp'rors
             great
             Lieutenant
             in
             the
             East
             ,
          
           
             Who
             first
             show'd
             Rome
             ,
             that
             Parthia
             could
             be
             Conquer'd
             .
          
           
             When
             Antony
             return'd
             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
             in
             Cilicia
             first
             ,
          
           
             When
             Cleopatra
             there
             met
             Antony
             :
          
           
             A
             mortal
             Foe
             he
             was
             to
             us
             ,
             and
             Aegypt
             .
          
           
             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'r
             was
             of
             his
             Pleasures
             ;
             but
             precides
          
           
             O're
             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
             forwards
             to
             the
             front
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ventidius
             .
          
           
             Not
             see
             him
             ,
             say
             you
             ?
          
           
             I
             say
             ,
             I
             must
             and
             will.
             
          
        
         
           
             Gent.
             
          
           
             He
             has
             commanded
             ,
          
           
             On
             pain
             of
             Death
             ,
             none
             should
             approach
             his
             Presence
             :
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             bring
             him
             news
             will
             raise
             his
             drooping
             Spirits
             ,
          
           
             Give
             him
             new
             life
             .
          
        
         
           
             Gent.
             
          
           
             He
             sees
             not
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Would
             he
             had
             never
             seen
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Gent.
             
          
           
             He
             Eats
             not
             ,
             Drinks
             not
             ,
             Sieeps
             not
             ,
             has
             no
             use
          
           
             Of
             any
             thing
             ,
             but
             Thought
             ;
             or
             ,
             if
             he
             Talks
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             to
             himself
             ,
             and
             then
             't
             is
             perfect
             Raving
             :
          
           
             Then
             he
             defies
             the
             World
             ,
             and
             bids
             it
             pass
             ;
          
           
             Sometimes
             he
             gnaws
             his
             Lip
             ,
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Just
             ,
             just
             his
             nature
             .
          
           
             Virtue
             's
             his
             path
             ;
             but
             sometimes
             't
             is
             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
             fault
             ,
          
           
             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
             c●…e
             forward
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             You
             have
             your
             full
             Instructions
             ,
             now
             advance
             ;
          
           
             Proclaim
             your
             Orders
             loudly
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             
               Romans
               ,
               Aegyptians
            
             ,
             hear
             the
             Queen's
             Command
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Cleopatra
             bids
             ,
             Let
             Labor
             cease
             ,
          
           
             To
             Pomp
             and
             Triumphs
             give
             this
             happy
             day
             ,
          
           
             That
             gave
             the
             World
             a
             Lord
             :
             't
             is
             
             Antony's
             .
          
           
             Live
             ,
             Antony
             ;
             and
             Cleopatra
             live
             .
          
           
             Be
             this
             the
             general
             voice
             sent
             up
             to
             Heav'n
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             publick
             place
             repeat
             this
             eccho
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             Fine
             Pageantry
             !
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Set
             out
             before
             your
             doors
          
           
             The
             Images
             of
             all
             your
             sleeping
             Fathers
             ,
          
           
             With
             Laurels
             crown'd
             ;
             with
             Laurels
             wreath
             your
             posts
             ,
          
           
             And
             strow
             with
             Flow'rs
             the
             Pavement
             ;
             Let
             the
             Priests
          
           
             Do
             present
             Sacrifice
             ;
             pour
             out
             the
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             And
             call
             the
             Gods
             to
             joyn
             with
             you
             in
             gladness
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             Honors
             ;
             when
             all
             Heaven
          
           
             Labour'd
             for
             him
             ,
             when
             each
             propitious
             Star
          
           
             Stood
             wakeful
             in
             his
             Orb
             ,
             to
             watch
             that
             Hour
             ,
          
           
             And
             shed
             his
             better
             influence
             .
             Her
             own
             Birth-day
          
           
             Our
             Queen
             neglected
             ,
             like
             a
             vulgar
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             That
             pass'd
             obscurely
             by
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Would
             it
             had
             slept
             ,
          
           
             Divided
             far
             from
             his
             ;
             till
             some
             remote
          
           
             And
             future
             Age
             had
             call'd
             it
             out
             ,
             to
             ruin
          
           
             Some
             other
             Prince
             ,
             not
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Your
             Emperor
             .
          
           
             Thô
             grown
             unkind
             ,
             would
             be
             more
             gentle
             ,
             than
          
           
             T'
             upbraid
             my
             Queen
             for
             loving
             him
             too
             well
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Does
             the
             mute
             Sacrifice
             upbraid
             the
             Priest
             ?
          
           
             He
             knows
             him
             not
             his
             Executioner
             .
          
           
             O
             ,
             she
             has
             deck'd
             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
             unmann'd
             him
             :
          
           
             Can
             any
             Roman
             see
             ,
             and
             know
             him
             now
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             alter'd
             from
             the
             Lord
             of
             half
             Mankind
             ,
          
           
             Unbent
             ,
             unsinew'd
             made
             a
             Womans
             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!
          
           
             Could'st
             thou
             but
             make
             new
             Worlds
             ,
             so
             wouldst
             thou
             give
             'em
             ,
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Would
             I
             could
             not
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             Wherefore
             waste
             I
             precious
             hours
             with
             thee
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             art
             her
             Darling
             mischief
             ,
             her
             chief
             Engin
             ,
          
           
             
             Antony's
             other
             Fate
             .
             Go
             ,
             tell
             thy
             Queen
             ,
          
           
             Ventidius
             is
             arriv'd
             ,
             to
             end
             her
             Charms
             .
          
           
           
             Let
             your
             Aegyptian
             Timbrels
             play
             alone
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             mix
             Effeminate
             Sounds
             with
             Roman
             Trumpets
             .
          
           
             You
             dare
             not
             fight
             for
             Antony
             ;
             go
             Pray
             ,
          
           
             And
             keep
             your
             Cowards-Holy-day
             in
             Temples
             .
          
           
             
               [
               Exeunt
            
             Alex.
             Serap
             .
          
           
             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
             humor
             drives
             :
             the
             rest
             I
             'le
             venture
             .
          
           
             [
             Withdraws
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Antony
             ,
             walking
             with
             a
             disturb'd
             Motion
             ,
             before
             he
             speaks
             .
          
        
         
           
             Antony
             .
          
           
             They
             tell
             me
             't
             is
             my
             Birth-day
             ,
             and
             I
             'le
             keep
             it
          
           
             With
             double
             pomp
             of
             sadness
          
           
             'T
             is
             what
             the
             Day
             deserves
             ,
             which
             gave
             me
             breath
             .
          
           
             Why
             was
             I
             rais'd
             the
             Meteor
             of
             the
             World
             ,
          
           
             Hung
             in
             the
             Skies
             ,
             and
             blazing
             as
             I
             travell'd
             ,
          
           
             Till
             all
             my
             fires
             were
             spent
             ;
             and
             then
             cast
             downward
          
           
             To
             be
             trode
             out
             by
             Caesar
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             On
             my
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             mournful
             ,
             wondrous
             mournful
             !
          
        
         
           
             Anto.
             
          
           
             Count
             thy
             Gains
             .
          
           
             Now
             ,
             Antony
             ,
             Wouldst
             thou
             be
             born
             for
             this
             ?
          
           
             Glutton
             of
             Fortune
             ,
             thy
             devouring
             youth
          
           
             Has
             starv'd
             thy
             wanting
             Age.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             How
             Sorrow
             shakes
             him
             !
          
           
             [
             aside
             .
          
           
             So
             ,
             now
             the
             Tempest
             tears
             him
             ●…p
             by
             th'
             Roots
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             the
             ground
             extends
             the
             noble
             Ruin.
             
          
           
             Ant.
             having
             thrown
             himself
             down
             .
          
           
             Lye
             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
             't
             will
             be
             too
             large
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             thou'
             rt
             contracted
             in
             thy
             narrow
             Urn
             ,
          
           
             Shrunk
             to
             a
             few
             cold
             Ashes
             ;
             then
             Octavia
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Cleopatra
             will
             not
             live
             to
             see
             it
             )
          
           
             Octavia
             then
             will
             have
             thee
             all
             her
             own
             ,
          
           
             And
             bear
             thee
             in
             her
             Widow'd
             hand
             to
             Caesar
             ;
          
           
             Caesar
             will
             weep
             ,
             the
             Crocodile
             will
             weep
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             his
             Rival
             of
             the
             Universe
          
           
             Lie
             still
             and
             peaceful
             there
             .
             I
             'le
             think
             no
             more
             on
             't
             .
          
           
             Give
             me
             some
             Musick
             ;
             look
             that
             it
             be
             sad
             :
          
           
             I
             'le
             sooth
             my
             Melancholy
             till
             I
             swell
             ,
          
           
             And
             burst
             my self
             with
             sighing
             —
          
           
             Sofe
             Musick
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             somewhat
             to
             my
             humor
             .
             Stay
             ,
             I
             fancy
          
           
           
             I
             'm
             now
             turn'd
             wild
             ,
             a
             Commoner
             of
             Nature
             ;
          
           
             Of
             all
             forsaken
             ,
             and
             forsaking
             all
             ;
          
           
             Live
             in
             a
             shady
             Forest's
             Sylvan
             Scene
             ,
          
           
             Stretch'd
             at
             my
             length
             beneath
             some
             blasted
             Oke
             ;
          
           
             I
             lean
             my
             head
             upon
             the
             Mossy
             Bark
             ,
          
           
             And
             look
             just
             of
             a
             piece
             ,
             as
             I
             grew
             from
             it
             :
          
           
             My
             uncomb'd
             Locks
             ,
             matted
             like
             Misleto
             ,
          
           
             Hang
             o're
             my
             hoary
             Face
             ;
             a
             murm'ring
             Brook
          
           
             Runs
             at
             my
             foot
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Methinks
             I
             fancy
          
           
             My self
             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
             Musick
             again
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             must
             disturb
             him
             ;
             I
             can
             hold
             no
             longer
             .
          
           
             [
             Stands
             before
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             starting
             up
             .
          
           
             Art
             thou
             Ventidius
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Are
             you
             Antony
             ?
          
           
             I
             'm
             liker
             what
             I
             was
             ,
             than
             you
             to
             him
          
           
             I
             left
             you
             last
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             'm
             angry
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             So
             am
             I.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             would
             be
             private
             :
             leave
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Sir
             ,
             I
             love
             you
             .
          
           
             And
             therefore
             will
             not
             leave
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Will
             not
             leave
             me
             ?
          
           
             Where
             have
             you
             learnt
             that
             Answer
             ?
             Who
             am
             I
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             My
             Emperor
             ;
             the
             Man
             I
             love
             next
             Heaven
             :
          
           
             If
             I
             said
             more
             ,
             I
             think
             't
             were
             scarce
             a
             Sin
             ;
          
           
             Y'
             are
             all
             that
             's
             good
             ,
             and
             good-like
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             All
             that
             's
             wretched
             .
          
           
             You
             will
             not
             leave
             me
             then
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             too
             presuming
          
           
             To
             say
             I
             would
             not
             ;
             but
             I
             dare
             not
             leave
             you
             :
          
           
             And
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             satisfy'd
             ?
          
           
             For
             ,
             if
             a
             Friend
             ,
             thou
             hast
             beheld
             enough
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             if
             a
             Foe
             ,
             too
             much
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             weeping
             .
          
           
             Look
             ,
             Emperor
             ,
             this
             is
             no
             common
             Dew
             .
          
           
             I
             have
             not
             wept
             this
             Forty
             years
             ;
             but
             now
          
           
             My
             Mother
             comes
             afresh
             into
             my
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             I
             cannot
             help
             her
             softness
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             By
             Heav'n
             ,
             he
             weeps
             ,
             poor
             good
             old
             Man
             ,
             he
             weeps
             !
          
           
             The
             big
             round
             drops
             course
             one
             another
             down
          
           
             The
             furrows
             of
             his
             Cheeks
             .
             Stop
             'em
             ,
             Ventidius
             ,
          
           
             Or
             I
             shall
             blush
             to
             death
             :
             they
             set
             my
             shame
             ,
          
           
           
             That
             caus'd
             'em
             ,
             full
             before
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             do
             my
             best
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Sure
             there
             's
             contagion
             in
             the
             tears
             of
             Friends
             :
          
           
             See
             ,
             I
             have
             caught
             it
             too
             .
             Believe
             me
             ,
             't
             is
             not
          
           
             For
             my
             own
             griefs
             ,
             but
             thine
             —
             Nay
             ,
             Father
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             warrant
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             
               Actium
               ,
               Actium
            
             !
             Oh
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             It
             sits
             too
             near
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Here
             ,
             here
             it
             lies
             ;
             a
             lump
             of
             Lead
             by
             day
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             in
             my
             short
             distracted
             nightly
             slumbers
             ,
          
           
             The
             Hag
             that
             rides
             my
             Dreams
             —
          
        
         
           
             Vent
             .
          
           
             Out
             with
             it
             ;
             give
             it
             vent
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Urg
             not
             my
             shame
             .
          
           
             I
             lost
             a
             Battel
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vent
             .
          
           
             So
             has
             Julius
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thou
             favour'st
             me
             ,
             and
             speak'st
             not
             half
             thou
             think'st
             ;
          
           
             For
             Julins
             fought
             it
             out
             ,
             and
             lost
             it
             fairly
             :
          
           
             But
             Antony
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             the
             leave
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             thou
             com'st
             prepar'd
             to
             rail
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             did
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             help
             thee
             —
             —
             I
             have
             been
             a
             Man
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             and
             a
             brave
             one
             ;
             but
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             know
             thy
             meaning
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             I
             have
             lost
             my
             Reason
             ,
             have
             disgrac'd
          
           
             The
             name
             of
             Soldier
             ,
             with
             inglorious
             ease
             .
          
           
             In
             the
             full
             Vintage
             of
             my
             flowing
             honours
             ,
          
           
             Sate
             still
             ,
             and
             saw
             it
             prest
             by
             other
             hands
             .
          
           
             Fortune
             came
             smiling
             to
             my
             youth
             ,
             and
             woo'd
             it
             ,
          
           
             And
             purple
             greatness
             met
             my
             ripen'd
             years
             .
          
           
             When
             first
             I
             came
             to
             Empire
             ,
             I
             was
             born
          
           
             On
             Tides
             of
             people
             ,
             crouding
             to
             my
             Triumphs
             ;
          
           
             The
             wish
             of
             Nations
             ;
             and
             the
             willing
             World
          
           
             Receiv'd
             me
             as
             its
             pledge
             of
             future
             peace
             ;
          
           
             I
             was
             so
             great
             ,
             so
             happy
             ,
             so
             belov'd
             ,
          
           
             Fate
             could
             not
             ruine
             me
             ;
             till
             I
             took
             pains
          
           
             And
             work'd
             against
             my
             Fortune
             ,
             chid
             her
             from
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             turn'd
             her
             loose
             ;
             yet
             still
             she
             came
             again
             .
          
           
           
             My
             careless
             days
             ,
             and
             my
             luxurious
             nights
             ,
          
           
             At
             length
             have
             weary'd
             her
             ,
             and
             now
             she
             's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Gone
             ,
             gone
             ,
             divorc'd
             for
             ever
             .
             Help
             me
             ,
             Soldier
             ,
          
           
             To
             curse
             this
             Madman
             ,
             this
             industrious
             Fool
             ,
          
           
             Who
             labour'd
             to
             be
             wretched
             :
             prithee
             curse
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             No.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Why
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             are
             too
             sensible
             already
          
           
             Of
             what
             y'have
             done
             ,
             too
             conscious
             of
             your
             failings
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             like
             a
             Scorpion
             ,
             whipt
             by
             others
             first
          
           
             To
             fury
             ,
             sting
             your self
             in
             mad
             revenge
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             bring
             Balm
             and
             pour
             it
             in
             your
             Wounds
             ,
          
           
             Cure
             your
             distemper'd
             mind
             ,
             and
             heal
             your
             fortunes
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             know
             thou
             would'st
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             will.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Ha
             ,
             ha
             ,
             ha
             ,
             ha
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             Laugh
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             do
             ,
             to
             see
             officious
             love
          
           
             Give
             Cordials
             to
             the
             dead
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             would
             be
             lost
             then
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             am
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             say
             ,
             you
             are
             not
             .
             Try
             your
             fortune
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             have
             to
             th'
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Caesar
             thinks
             not
             so
             :
          
           
             He
             'll
             thank
             you
             for
             the
             gift
             he
             could
             not
             take
             .
          
           
             You
             would
             be
             kill'd
             ,
             like
             Tully
             ,
             would
             you
             ?
             do
             ,
          
           
             Hold
             out
             your
             Throat
             to
             Casar
             ,
             and
             dye
             tamely
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             ,
             I
             can
             kill
             my self
             ;
             and
             so
             resolve
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             can
             die
             with
             you
             too
             ,
             when
             time
             shall
             serve
             ;
          
           
             But
             Fortune
             calls
             upon
             us
             now
             to
             live
             ,
          
           
             To
             Fight
             ,
             to
             Conquer
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Sure
             thou
             Dream'st
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             No
             ,
             't
             is
             you
             Dream
             ;
             you
             sleep
             away
             your
             hours
          
           
             In
             desperate
             sloth
             ,
             miscall'd
             Philosophy
             .
          
           
             Up
             ,
             up
             ,
             for
             Honor's
             sake
             ;
             twelve
             Legions
             wait
             you
             ,
          
           
             And
             long
             to
             call
             you
             Chief
             :
             by
             painful
             Journeys
             ,
          
           
             I
             led
             'em
             ,
             patient
             ,
             both
             of
             heat
             and
             hunger
             ,
          
           
             Down
             from
             the
             Parthian
             Marches
             ,
             to
             the
             Nile
             .
          
           
             'T
             will
             do
             you
             good
             to
             see
             their
             Sun-burnt
             Faces
             ,
          
           
             Their
             skar'd
             Cheeks
             and
             chopt
             hands
             ;
             there
             's
             virtue
             in
             'em
             ,
          
           
             They
             'll
             sell
             those
             mangled
             Limbs
             at
             dearer
             Rates
          
           
             Than
             you
             trim
             Bands
             can
             buy
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Where
             left
             you
             them
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             said
             ,
             in
             lower
             Syria
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Bring
             'em
             hither
             ;
          
           
             There
             may
             be
             life
             in
             these
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             They
             will
             not
             come
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Why
             did'st
             thou
             mock
             my
             hopes
             with
             promis'd
             aids
          
           
             To
             double
             my
             despair
             ?
             They
             're
             mutinous
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Most
             firm
             and
             loyal
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yet
             they
             will
             not
             March
          
           
             To
             succour
             me
             .
             Oh
             trifler
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             They
             petition
          
           
             You
             would
             make
             hast
             to
             head
             '
             em
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             'm
             besieg●…d
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             There
             's
             but
             one
             way
             shut
             up
             :
             How
             came
             I
             hither
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             stir
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             They
             would
             perhaps
             desire
          
           
             A
             better
             reason
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             have
             never
             us'd
          
           
             My
             Soldiers
             to
             demand
             a
             reason
             of
          
           
             My
             actions
             .
             Why
             did
             they
             refuse
             to
             March
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             They
             said
             ,
             they
             would
             not
             fight
             for
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             What
             was
             't
             they
             said
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven
             
          
           
             They
             said
             they
             would
             not
             fight
             for
             Cleopatra
             .
          
           
             Why
             should
             they
             fight
             ,
             indeed
             ,
             to
             make
             her
             Conquer
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             you
             more
             a
             Slave
             ?
             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
             World's
             than
             I
             can
             lose
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Behold
             ,
             you
             Pow'rs
             ,
          
           
             To
             whom
             you
             have
             intrusted
             Humankind
             ;
          
           
             See
             
               Europe
               ,
               Africk
               ,
               Asia
            
             ,
             put
             in
             balance
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             weigh'd
             down
             by
             one
             light
             worthless
             Woman
             !
          
           
             I
             think
             the
             Gods
             are
             
             Antony's
             ,
             and
             give
          
           
             Like
             Prodigals
             ,
             this
             neather
             World
             away
             ,
          
           
             To
             none
             but
             wastful
             hands
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             You
             grow
             presumptuous
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             take
             the
             priviledge
             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'reflowing
             Gall.
          
           
             O
             that
             thou
             wert
             my
             equal
             ;
             great
             in
             Arms.
          
           
           
             As
             the
             first
             Caesar
             was
             ,
             that
             I
             might
             kill
             thee
          
           
             Without
             a
             Stain
             to
             Honour
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             may
             k●…e
             ;
          
           
             You
             have
             done
             more
             already
             ,
             call'd
             me
             Traytor
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Art
             thou
             not
             one
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             For
             showing
             you
             your self
             ,
          
           
             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
             dye
             with
             you
             .
          
           
             What
             hindred
             me
             t'
             have
             led
             my
             Conqu'ring
             Eagles
          
           
             To
             fill
             
             Octavius's
             Bands
             ?
             I
             could
             have
             been
          
           
             A
             Traytor
             then
             ,
             a
             glorious
             happy
             Traytor
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             have
             been
             so
             call'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Forgive
             me
             ,
             Soldier
             :
          
           
             I
             've
             been
             too
             passionate
             ,
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             thought
             me
             false
             ;
          
           
             Thought
             my
             old
             Age
             betray'd
             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
             :
             prithee
             forgive
             me
             :
          
           
             Why
             did'st
             thou
             tempt
             my
             Anger
             ,
             by
             discovery
          
           
             Of
             what
             I
             would
             not
             hear
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             No
             Prince
             but
             you
             ,
          
           
             Could
             merit
             that
             sincerity
             I
             us'd
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             durst
             another
             Man
             have
             ventur'd
             it
             ;
          
           
             But
             you
             ,
             e're
             Love
             misled
             your
             wandring
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Were
             sure
             the
             chief
             and
             best
             of
             Human
             Race
             ,
          
           
             Fram'd
             in
             the
             very
             pride
             and
             boast
             of
             Nature
             ,
          
           
             So
             perfect
             ,
             that
             the
             Gods
             who
             form'd
             you
             ,
             wonder'd
          
           
             At
             their
             own
             skill
             ,
             and
             cry'd
             ,
             A
             lucky
             hit
          
           
             Has
             mended
             our
             design
             .
             Their
             envy
             hindred
             ,
          
           
             Else
             you
             had
             been
             Immortal
             ,
             and
             a
             pattern
             ,
          
           
             When
             Heav'n
             would
             work
             for
             ostentation
             sake
             ,
          
           
             To
             copy
             out
             again
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             But
             Cleopatra
             —
          
           
             Go
             on
             ;
             for
             I
             can
             bear
             it
             now
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             No
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thou
             dar'st
             not
             trust
             my
             Passion
             ;
             but
             thou
             may'st
             :
          
           
             Thou
             only
             lov'st
             ;
             the
             rest
             have
             flatter'd
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Heav'ns
             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
             'em
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             mend
             all
             .
             Do
             with
             me
             what
             thou
             wilt
             ,
          
           
             Lead
             me
             to
             victory
             ,
             thou
             know'st
             the
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             And
             ,
             Will
             you
             leave
             this
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Prithee
             do
             not
             curse
             her
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             will
             leave
             her
             ;
             though
             ,
             Heav'n
             knows
             ,
             I
             love
          
           
             Beyond
             Life
             ,
             Conquest
             ,
             Empire
             ;
             all
             ,
             but
             Honor
             ,
          
           
             But
             I
             will
             leave
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             That
             's
             my
             Royal
             Master
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             Shall
             we
             Fight
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             warrant
             thee
             ,
             old
             Soldier
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             behold
             me
             once
             again
             in
             Iron
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             the
             head
             of
             our
             old
             Troops
             ,
             that
             beat
          
           
             The
             Parthians
             ,
             cry
             aloud
             ,
             Come
             follow
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             O
             now
             I
             hear
             my
             Emperor
             !
             in
             that
             word
          
           
             Octavius
             fell
             .
             Gods
             ,
             let
             me
             see
             that
             day
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             I
             have
             Ten
             years
             behind
             ,
             take
             all
             ;
          
           
             Ill
             thank
             you
             for
             th'
             exchange
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Oh
             Cleopatra
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Again
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             've
             done
             :
             in
             that
             last
             Sigh
             she
             went.
          
           
             Coesar
             shall
             know
             what
             't
             is
             to
             force
             a
             Lover
             ,
          
           
             From
             all
             he
             holds
             most
             dear
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Methinks
             you
             breath
          
           
             Another
             Soul
             :
             Your
             looks
             are
             more
             Divine
             ;
          
           
             You
             speak
             a
             Heroe
             ,
             and
             you
             move
             a
             God.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             thou
             hast
             fir'd
             me
             ;
             my
             Soul
             's
             up
             in
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             And
             Mans
             each
             part
             about
             me
             :
             once
             again
             ,
          
           
             That
             noble
             eagerness
             of
             Fight
             has
             seiz'd
             me
             ;
          
           
             That
             eagerness
             with
             which
             I
             darted
             upward
          
           
             To
             
             Cassius's
             Camp
             :
             In
             vain
             the
             steepy
             Hill.
          
           
             Oppos'd
             my
             way
             ;
             in
             vain
             a
             War
             of
             Spears
          
           
             Sung
             round
             my
             head
             ;
             and
             planted
             all
             my
             shield
             :
          
           
             I
             won
             the
             Trenches
             ,
             while
             my
             formost
             Men
          
           
             Lagg'd
             on
             the
             Plain
             below
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Ye
             Gods
             ,
             ye
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             For
             such
             another
             hour
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Come
             on
             ,
             my
             Soldier
             !
          
           
             Our
             Hearts
             and
             Arms
             are
             still
             the
             same
             :
             I
             long
          
           
             Once
             more
             to
             meet
             our
             Foes
             ;
             that
             Thou
             and
             I
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Time
             and
             Death
             ,
             marching
             before
             our
             Troops
             ,
          
           
             May
             taste
             fate
             to
             'em
             ;
             Mowe
             'em
             out
             a
             passage
             ,
          
           
             And
             entring
             where
             the
             foremost
             Squadrons
             yield
             ,
          
           
             ●…egin
             the
             noble
             Harvest
             of
             the
             Field
             .
          
           
             [
             Exeunt
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           ACT.
           II.
           
        
         
           Cleopatra
           ,
           Iras
           ,
           and
           Alexas
           .
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             WHat
             shall
             I
             do
             ,
             or
             whither
             shall
             I
             turn
             ?
          
           
             Ventidius
             has
             o'rcome
             ,
             and
             he
             will
             go
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             He
             goes
             to
             Fight
             for
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             Then
             he
             would
             see
             me
             e're
             he
             went
             to
             fight
             :
          
           
             Flatter
             me
             not
             :
             if
             once
             he
             goes
             ,
             he
             's
             lost
             :
          
           
             And
             all
             my
             hopes
             destroy'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Does
             this
             weak
             passion
          
           
             Become
             a
             Mighty
             Queen
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             I
             am
             no
             Queen
             ;
          
           
             Is
             this
             to
             be
             a
             Queen
             ,
             to
             be
             besieg'd
          
           
             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
             deserv'd
             it
             .
             Moderate
             sorrow
          
           
             Fits
             vulgar
             Love
             ;
             and
             for
             a
             vulgar
             Man
             :
          
           
             But
             I
             have
             lov'd
             with
             such
             transcendent
             passion
             ,
          
           
             I
             soar'd
             ,
             at
             first
             ,
             quite
             out
             of
             Reasons
             view
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             am
             lost
             above
             it
             —
             No
             ,
             I
             'm
             proud
          
           
             'T
             is
             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-natur'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             bears
             a
             tender
             heart
             ●…
             I
             know
             him
             well
             .
          
           
             Ah
             ,
             no
             ,
             I
             know
             him
             not
             ;
             I
             knew
             him
             once
             ,
          
           
             But
             now
             't
             is
             past
             .
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Let
             it
             be
             past
             with
             you
             :
          
           
             Forget
             him
             ,
             Madam
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             Never
             ,
             never
             ,
             Iras.
          
           
             He
             once
             was
             mine
             ;
             and
             once
             ,
             though
             now
             't
             is
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Leaves
             a
             faint
             Image
             of
             possession
             still
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Think
             him
             unconstant
             ,
             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
             dye
             ?
             nay
             ,
             Do
             I
             live
             ?
          
           
             Or
             am
             I
             dead
             ?
             for
             when
             he
             gave
             his
             answer
             ,
          
           
             Fate
             took
             the
             word
             ,
             and
             then
             I
             liv'd
             ,
             or
             dy'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             I
             found
             him
             ,
             Madam
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             A
             long
             Speech
             preparing
             ?
          
           
             If
             thou
             bring'st
             comfort
             ,
             hast
             ,
             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
             ,
             undisguis'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             words
             he
             spoke
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             I
             sound
             him
             then
          
           
             Incompass'd
             round
             ,
             I
             think
             ,
             with
             Iron
             Statues
             ,
          
           
             So
             mute
             ,
             so
             motionless
             his
             Soldiers
             stood
             ,
          
           
             While
             awfully
             he
             cast
             his
             Eyes
             about
             ,
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             Leaders
             hopes
             or
             fears
             survey'd
             :
          
           
             Methought
             he
             look'd
             resolv'd
             ,
             and
             yet
             not
             pleas'd
             .
          
           
             When
             he
             beheld
             me
             strugling
             in
             the
             croud
             ,
          
           
             He
             blush'd
             ,
             and
             bad
             ,
             make
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             There
             's
             comfort
             yet
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             Ventidius
             fixt
             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
             disorder'd
             ;
          
           
             I
             numbred
             in
             it
             all
             your
             sighs
             and
             tears
             ,
          
           
             And
             while
             I
             mov'd
             your
             pitiful
             request
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             but
             only
             beg'd
             a
             last
             farewel
             ,
          
           
             He
             fetch
             an
             inward
             groan
             ,
             and
             ev'ry
             time
          
           
             I
             nam'd
             you
             ,
             sigh'd
             ,
             as
             if
             his
             heart
             were
             breaking
             ,
          
           
             But
             shun'd
             my
             Eyes
             ,
             and
             guiltily
             look'd
             down
             ;
          
           
             He
             seem'd
             not
             now
             that
             awful
             Antony
          
           
             Who
             shook
             an
             Arm'd
             Assembly
             with
             his
             Nod
             ,
          
           
             But
             making
             show
             as
             he
             would
             rub
             his
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Disguis'd
             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
             would
             say
             ,
             he
             wou'd
             not
             see
             me
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Charm.
             
          
           
             And
             therefore
             beg'd
             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
             ?
          
           
             Oh
             that
             faint
             word
             ,
             Respect
             !
             how
             I
             disdain
             it
             !
          
           
             Disdain
             my self
             ,
             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
             pow'r
             to
             give
             '
             em
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             You
             misjudge
             ;
          
           
             You
             see
             through
             Love
             ,
             and
             that
             deludes
             your
             sight
             :
          
           
             As
             ,
             what
             is
             strait
             ,
             seems
             crooked
             through
             the
             Water
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             ,
             who
             bear
             my
             reason
             undisturb'd
             ,
          
           
             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
             ev'ry
             circumstance
             I
             know
             he
             Loves
             .
          
           
             True
             ,
             he
             's
             hard
             prest
             ,
             by
             Interest
             and
             by
             Honour
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             he
             but
             doubts
             ,
             and
             parlies
             ,
             and
             casts
             out
          
           
             Many
             a
             long
             lookt
             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
             ●…rom
             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
             easie
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             You
             shall
             rule
             me
             ;
          
           
             But
             all
             ,
             I
             fear
             ,
             in
             vain
             .
          
           
             [
             Exit
             with
             Char.
             and
             Iras
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             I
             fear
             soo
             too
             !
          
           
             Though
             I
             conceal'd
             my
             thoughts
             ,
             to
             make
             her
             b●…ld
             :
          
           
             But
             ,
             't
             is
             our
             utmost
             means
             ,
             and
             Fate
             befriend
             it
             .
          
           
             [
             Withdraws
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Lictors
             with
             Fasces
             ;
             one
             bearing
             the
             Eagle
             :
             then
             Enter
             Antony
             with
             Ventidius
             ,
             follow'd
             by
             other
             Commanders
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Octavius
             is
             the
             Minion
             of
             blind
             Chance
             ,
          
           
             But
             holds
             from
             Virtue
             nothing
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Has
             he
             courage
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             But
             just
             enough
             to
             season
             him
             from
             Coward
             .
          
           
           
             O
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             )
             't
             is
             when
             he
             cannot
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             heard
             ,
             you
             challeng'd
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             did
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
           
             What
             think'st
             thou
             was
             his
             answer
             ?
             't
             was
             so
             tame
             ,
             —
          
           
             He
             said
             he
             had
             more
             ways
             than
             one
             to
             die
             ;
          
           
             I
             had
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Poor
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             He
             has
             more
             ways
             than
             one
             ;
          
           
             But
             he
             would
             chuse
             'em
             all
             before
             that
             one
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             He
             first
             would
             chuse
             an
             Ague
             ,
             or
             a
             Fever
             :
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             :
             it
             must
             be
             an
             Ague
             ,
             not
             a
             Fever
             ;
          
           
             He
             has
             not
             warmth
             enough
             to
             die
             by
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Or
             old
             Age
             ,
             and
             a
             Bed.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             ,
             there
             's
             his
             choice
             .
          
           
             He
             would
             live
             ,
             like
             a
             Lamp
             ,
             to
             the
             last
             wink
             ,
          
           
             And
             crawl
             upon
             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're
             Fourscore
             thousand
             Men
             ,
             of
             whom
             ,
             each
             one
          
           
             Is
             braver
             than
             himself
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             You
             conquer'd
             for
             him
             :
          
           
             Philippi
             knows
             it
             :
             there
             you
             shar'd
             with
             him
          
           
             That
             Empire
             ,
             which
             your
             Sword
             made
             all
             your
             own
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Fool
             that
             I
             was
             ,
             upon
             my
             Eagles
             Wings
          
           
             I
             bore
             this
             Wren
             ,
             till
             I
             was
             tir'd
             with
             soaring
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             he
             mounts
             above
             me
             .
          
           
             Good
             Heav'ns
             ,
             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
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             joyn
             thy
             Legions
             ;
             and
             ,
             in
             open
             Field
             ,
          
           
             Once
             more
             to
             shew
             my
             Face
             .
             Lead
             ,
             my
             Deliverer
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Alex.
             
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Great
             Emperor
             ,
          
           
             In
             mighty
             Arms
             renown'd
             above
             Mankind
             ,
          
           
             But
             ,
             in
             soft
             pity
             to
             th'
             opprest
             ,
             a
             God
             :
          
           
             This
             message
             sends
             the
             mournful
             Cleopatra
          
           
             To
             her
             departing
             Lord.
             
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             weary'd
             you
             already
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             False
             Crocodyle
             !
          
        
         
           
             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
             dang'rous
             for
             her
             Quiet
             )
          
           
             She
             humbly
             recommends
             all
             she
             holds
             dear
             ,
          
           
             All
             her
             own
             Cares
             and
             Fears
             ,
             the
             care
             of
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             witness
             Actium
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Let
             him
             speak
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             You
             ,
             when
             his
             matchless
             Valour
             bears
             him
             forward
             ,
          
           
             With
             Ardor
             too
             Heroick
             ,
             on
             his
             Foes
          
           
             Fall
             down
             ,
             as
             she
             would
             do
             ,
             before
             his
             Feet
             ;
          
           
             Lye
             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
             wisht
             return
             ,
             she
             will
             redeem
             .
          
           
             Gives
             Jewels
             to
             the
             Commanders
             .
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             Wealth
             of
             Aegypt
             :
          
           
             This
             ,
             to
             the
             great
             Ventidius
             she
             presents
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             she
             can
             never
             count
             her
             Enemy
             ,
          
           
             Because
             he
             loves
             her
             Lord.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Tell
             her
             I
             'll
             none
             on
             't
             ;
          
           
             I
             'm
             not
             asham'd
             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
             plac'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             And
             who
             must
             wear
             'em
             then
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             The
             wrong'd
             Octavia
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             You
             might
             have
             spar'd
             that
             word
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             :
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Now
             ,
             my
             best
             Lord
             ,
             in
             Honor's
             name
             ,
             I
             ask
             you
             ,
          
           
             For
             Manhood's
             sake
             ,
             and
             for
             your
             own
             dear
             safety
             ,
          
           
             Touch
             not
             these
             poison'd
             Gifts
             ,
          
           
             Infected
             by
             the
             Sender
             ,
             touch
             'em
             not
             ,
          
           
             Miriads
             of
             bluest
             Plagues
             lye
             underneath
             'em
             ,
          
           
             And
             more
             than
             Aconite
             has
             dipt
             the
             Silk
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             now
             you
             grow
             too
             Cynical
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
           
             A
             Lady's
             Favours
             may
             be
             worn
             with
             Honor.
          
           
             What
             ,
             to
             refuse
             her
             Bracelet
             !
             On
             my
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             When
             I
             lye
             pensive
             in
             my
             Tent
             alone
             ,
          
           
             'T
             will
             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
             't
             is
             past
             for
             ever
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             going
             to
             tye
             it
             .
          
           
             We
             Soldiers
             are
             so
             awkward
             —
             —
             help
             me
             tye
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             In
             faith
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             we
             Courtiers
             too
             are
             awkward
          
           
             In
             these
             Affairs
             :
             so
             are
             all
             Men
             indeed
             ;
          
           
             Ev'n
             I
             ,
             who
             am
             not
             one
             .
             But
             shall
             I
             speak
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             freely
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Then
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             fair
             hands
             alone
          
           
             Are
             fit
             to
             tye
             it
             ;
             She
             ,
             who
             sent
             it
             ,
             can
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Hell
             ,
             Death
             ;
             this
             Eunuch
             Pandar
             ruins
             you
             .
          
           
             You
             will
             not
             see
             her
             ?
          
           
             
               [
               Alexas
            
             whispers
             an
             Attendant
             ,
             who
             goes
             out
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             But
             to
             take
             my
             leave
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Then
             I
             have
             wash'd
             an
             Aethiope
             .
             Y'
             are
             undone
             ;
          
           
             Y'
             are
             in
             the
             Toils
             ;
             y'
             are
             taken
             ;
             y'
             are
             destroy'd
             :
          
           
             Her
             Eyes
             do
             
             Caesar's
             Work.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             You
             fear
             too
             soon
             .
          
           
             I
             'm
             constant
             to
             my self
             :
             I
             know
             my
             strength
             ;
          
           
             And
             yet
             she
             shall
             not
             think
             me
             barbarous
             ,
             neither
             .
          
           
             Born
             in
             the
             depths
             of
             Africk
             :
             I
             'm
             a
             Roman
             .
          
           
             Bred
             to
             the
             Rules
             of
             soft
             Humanity
             .
          
           
           
             A
             guest
             ,
             and
             kindly
             us'd
             ,
             should
             bid
             farewel
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             form'd
             the
             danger
             greater
             than
             it
             was
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             now
             't
             is
             near
             ,
             't
             is
             lessen'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             our selves
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             we
             have
             made
             'em
             ;
             we
             have
             lov'd
             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
             't
             were
             the
             bus'ness
             of
             Mankind
             to
             part
             us
             )
          
           
             Is
             arm'd
             against
             my
             Love
             :
             ev'n
             you
             your self
          
           
             Joyn
             with
             the
             rest
             ;
             you
             ,
             you
             are
             arm'd
             against
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             be
             justify'd
             in
             all
             I
             do
          
           
             To
             late
             Posterity
             ,
             and
             therefore
             hear
             me
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             mix
             a
             Lye
          
           
             With
             any
             Truth
             ,
             reproach
             me
             freely
             with
             it
             ;
          
           
             Else
             ,
             favor
             me
             with
             silence
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             You
             command
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             am
             dumb
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             like
             this
             well
             :
             he
             shews
             Authority
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             That
             I
             derive
             my
             ruin
          
           
             From
             you
             alone
             —
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             O
             Heav'ns
             !
             I
             ruin
             you
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             You
             promis'd
             me
             your
             silence
             ,
             and
             you
             break
             it
          
           
             E're
             I
             have
             scarce
             begun
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             Well
             ,
             I
             obey
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             When
             I
             beheld
             you
             first
             ,
             it
             was
             in
             Aegypt
             ,
          
           
             E're
             Caesar
             saw
             your
             Eyes
             ;
             you
             gave
             me
             love
             ,
          
           
             And
             were
             too
             young
             to
             know
             it
             ,
             that
             I
             setled
          
           
             Your
             Father
             in
             his
             Throne
             ,
             was
             for
             your
             sake
             ,
          
           
             I
             left
             the
             acknowledgment
             for
             time
             to
             ripen
             .
          
           
             Caesar
             stept
             in
             ,
             and
             with
             a
             greedy
             hand
          
           
             Pluck'd
             the
             green
             Fruit
             ,
             e'er
             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
             deserv'd
             you
             first
             ,
             though
             he
             enjoy'd
             you
             .
          
           
             When
             after
             ,
             I
             beheld
             you
             in
             Cilicia
             ,
          
           
             An
             Enemy
             to
             Rome
             ,
             I
             pardon'd
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             I
             clear'd
             my self
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Again
             you
             break
             your
             Promise
             .
          
           
             I
             lov'd
             you
             still
             ,
             and
             took
             your
             weak
             excuses
             ,
          
           
             Took
             you
             into
             my
             Bosom
             ,
             stain'd
             by
             Caesar
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             half
             mine
             :
             I
             went
             to
             Aegypt
             with
             you
             ,
          
           
             And
             hid
             me
             from
             the
             bus'ness
             of
             the
             World
             ,
          
           
             Shut
             out
             enquiring
             Nations
             from
             my
             sight
             ,
          
           
             To
             give
             whole
             years
             to
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             to
             your
             shame
             be
             't
             spoken
             .
          
           
             [
             aside
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             How
             I
             lov'd
          
           
             Witness
             ye
             Days
             and
             Nights
             ,
             and
             all
             your
             Hours
             ,
          
           
             That
             Danc'd
             away
             with
             Down
             upon
             your
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             As
             all
             your
             bus'ness
             were
             to
             count
             my
             Passion
             .
          
           
             One
             day
             past
             by
             ,
             and
             nothing
             saw
             but
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Another
             came
             ,
             and
             still
             't
             was
             only
             Love
             :
          
           
             The
             Suns
             were
             weary'd
             out
             with
             looking
             on
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             untir'd
             with
             Loving
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             you
             ev'ry
             day
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             day
             ;
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             day
             was
             still
             but
             as
             the
             first
             :
          
           
             So
             eager
             was
             I
             still
             to
             see
             you
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             all
             too
             true
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Fulvia
             ,
             my
             Wife
             ,
             grew
             jealous
             ,
          
           
             As
             she
             indeed
             had
             reason
             ;
             rais'd
             a
             War
          
           
             In
             Italy
             to
             call
             me
             back
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             But
             yet
          
           
             You
             went
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             While
             within
             your
             Arms
             I
             lay
             ,
          
           
             The
             World
             sell
             mouldring
             from
             my
             Hands
             each
             Hour
             ,
          
           
             And
             left
             me
             scarce
             a
             grasp
             (
             I
             thank
             your
             love
             for
             't
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Well
             push'd
             :
             that
             last
             was
             home
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Yet
             may
             I
             speak
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             If
             I
             have
             urg'd
             a
             falshood
             ,
             yes
             ,
             else
             ,
             not
             .
          
           
             Your
             silence
             says
             I
             have
             not
             .
             Fulvio
             dy'd
             ;
          
           
             (
             Pardon
             ,
             you
             gods
             ,
             with
             my
             unkindness
             dy'd
             )
          
           
             To
             set
             the
             World
             at
             Peace
             ,
             I
             took
             Octavia
             ,
          
           
             This
             
             Caesar's
             Sister
             ;
             in
             her
             pride
             of
             youth
          
           
             And
             flow'r
             of
             Beauty
             did
             I
             wed
             that
             Lady
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             blushing
             I
             must
             praise
             ,
             because
             I
             left
             her
             .
          
           
             You
             call'd
             ;
             my
             Love
             obey'd
             the
             fatal
             Summons
             :
          
           
             This
             rais'd
             the
             Roman
             Arms
             ;
             the
             Cause
             was
             yours
             ,
          
           
             I
             would
             have
             sought
             by
             Land
             ,
             where
             I
             was
             stronger
             ;
          
           
             You
             hindred
             it
             :
             yet
             ,
             when
             I
             fought
             at
             Sea
             ,
          
           
             Forsook
             me
             fighting
             ;
             and
             (
             Oh
             stain
             to
             Honor
             !
          
           
           
             Oh
             lasting
             shame
             !
             )
             I
             knew
             not
             that
             I
             fled
             ;
          
           
             But
             fled
             to
             follow
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             What
             haste
             she
             made
             to
             hoist
             her
             purple
             Sails
             !
          
           
             And
             to
             appear
             magnificent
             in
             flight
             ,
          
           
             Drew
             half
             our
             strength
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             All
             this
             you
             caus'd
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             Would
             you
             multiply
             more
             ruins
             on
             me
             ?
          
           
             This
             honest
             Man
             ,
             my
             best
             ,
             my
             only
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             Has
             gather'd
             up
             the
             Shipwreck
             of
             my
             Fortunes
             ;
          
           
             Twelve
             Legions
             I
             have
             left
             ,
             my
             last
             recruits
             ,
          
           
             And
             you
             have
             watch'd
             the
             news
             ,
             and
             bring
             your
             eyes
          
           
             To
             seise
             them
             too
             .
             If
             you
             have
             ought
             to
             answer
             ,
          
           
             Now
             speak
             ,
             you
             have
             free
             leave
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             She
             stands
             confounded
             :
          
           
             Despair
             is
             in
             her
             Eyes
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Now
             lay
             a
             sigh
             i'
             th'
             way
             ,
             to
             stop
             his
             passage
             :
          
           
             Prepare
             a
             Tear
             ,
             and
             bid
             it
             for
             his
             Legions
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             like
             they
             shall
             be
             fold
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             How
             shall
             I
             plead
             my
             cause
             ,
             when
             you
             ,
             my
             Judge
          
           
             Already
             have
             condemn'd
             me
             ?
             Shall
             I
             bring
          
           
             The
             Love
             you
             bore
             me
             for
             my
             Advocate
             ?
          
           
             That
             now
             is
             turn'd
             against
             me
             ,
             that
             destroys
             me
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             love
             once
             past
             ,
             is
             ,
             at
             the
             best
             ,
             forgotten
             ;
          
           
             But
             oftner
             sours
             to
             hate
             :
             't
             will
             please
             my
             Lord
          
           
             To
             ruine
             me
             ,
             and
             therefore
             I
             'll
             be
             guilty
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             could
             I
             once
             have
             thought
             it
             would
             have
             pleas'd
             you
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             would
             pry
             ,
             with
             narrow
             searching
             Eyes
          
           
             Into
             my
             faults
             ,
             severe
             to
             my
             destruction
             :
          
           
             And
             watching
             all
             advantages
             with
             care
             ,
          
           
             That
             serve
             to
             make
             me
             wretched
             ?
             Speak
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             For
             I
             end
             here
             .
             Though
             I
             deserve
             this
             usage
             ,
          
           
             Was
             it
             like
             you
             to
             give
             it
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             you
             wrong
             me
             ,
          
           
             To
             think
             I
             sought
             this
             parting
             ,
             or
             desir'd
          
           
             To
             accuse
             you
             more
             than
             what
             will
             clear
             my self
             ,
          
           
             And
             justifie
             this
             breach
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             Thus
             low
             I
             thank
             you
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             my
             innocence
             will
             not
             offend
             ,
          
           
             I
             shall
             not
             blush
             to
             own
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             After
             this
          
           
             I
             think
             she
             'll
             blush
             at
             nothing
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             You
             seem
             griev'd
             ,
          
           
             (
             And
             therein
             you
             are
             kind
             )
             that
             Caesar
             first
          
           
             Enjoy'd
             my
             love
             ,
             though
             you
             deserv'd
             it
             better
             :
          
           
             I
             grieve
             for
             that
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             much
             more
             than
             you
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             had
             I
             first
             been
             yours
             ,
             it
             would
             have
             sav'd
          
           
             My
             second
             choice
             :
             I
             never
             had
             been
             his
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             ne'r
             had
             been
             but
             yours
             .
             But
             Caesar
             first
             ,
          
           
             You
             say
             ,
             possess'd
             my
             love
             .
             Not
             so
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ;
          
           
             He
             first
             possess'd
             my
             Person
             ;
             you
             my
             Love
             :
          
           
             Caesar
             lov'd
             me
             ;
             but
             I
             lov'd
             Antony
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             endur'd
             him
             after
             ,
             't
             was
             because
          
           
             I
             judg'd
             it
             due
             to
             the
             first
             name
             of
             Men
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             half
             constrain'd
             ,
             I
             gave
             ,
             as
             to
             a
             Tyrant
             ,
          
           
             What
             he
             would
             take
             by
             force
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             O
             Syren
             !
             Syren
             !
          
           
             Yet
             grant
             that
             all
             the
             love
             she
             boasts
             were
             true
             ,
          
           
             Has
             she
             not
             ruin'd
             you
             ?
             I
             still
             urge
             that
             ,
          
           
             The
             fatal
             consequence
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             The
             consequence
             indeed
             ,
          
           
             For
             I
             dare
             challenge
             him
             ,
             my
             greatest
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             To
             say
             it
             was
             design'd
             :
             't
             is
             true
             ,
             I
             lov'd
             you
             ,
          
           
             And
             kept
             you
             far
             from
             an
             uneasie
             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
             wish'd
             some
             other
             Caesar
             ,
          
           
             Great
             as
             the
             first
             ,
             and
             as
             the
             second
             young
             ,
          
           
             Would
             court
             my
             Love
             to
             be
             refus'd
             for
             you
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Words
             ,
             words
             ;
             but
             Actium
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             remember
             Actium
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             Ev'n
             there
             ,
             I
             dare
             his
             Malice
             .
             True
             ,
             I
             Counsel'd
          
           
             To
             fight
             at
             Sea
             ;
             but
             I
             betray'd
             you
             not
             .
          
           
             I
             fled
             ;
             but
             not
             to
             the
             Enemy
             .
             'T
             was
             fear
             ;
          
           
             Would
             I
             had
             been
             a
             Man
             ,
             not
             to
             have
             fear'd
             ,
          
           
             For
             none
             would
             then
             have
             envy'd
             me
             your
             friendship
             ,
          
           
             Who
             envy
             me
             your
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             We
             're
             both
             unhappy
             :
          
           
             If
             nothing
             else
             ,
             yet
             our
             ill
             fortune
             parts
             us
             .
          
           
             Speak
             ;
             Would
             you
             have
             me
             perish
             ,
             by
             my
             stay
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             If
             as
             a
             friend
             you
             ask
             my
             Judgment
             ,
             go
             ;
          
           
             If
             as
             a
             Lover
             ,
             stay
             .
             If
             you
             must
             perish
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             a
             hard
             word
             ;
             but
             stay
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             See
             now
             th'
             effects
             of
             her
             so
             boasted
             love
             !
          
           
             She
             strives
             to
             drag
             you
             down
             to
             ruine
             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
             born
          
           
             A
             life
             or
             death
             ,
             a
             happiness
             or
             woe
          
           
             From
             yours
             divided
             ,
             this
             had
             giv'n
             me
             means
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             By
             Hercules
             ,
             the
             Writing
             of
             Octavius
             !
          
           
             I
             know
             it
             well
             ;
             't
             is
             that
             prescribing
             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
             Aegypt
             ,
          
           
             And
             joyns
             all
             Syria
             to
             it
             as
             a
             present
             ,
          
           
             So
             ,
             in
             requital
             ,
             she
             forsake
             my
             fortunes
             ,
          
           
             And
             joyn
             her
             Arms
             with
             his
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             And
             yet
             you
             leave
             me
             !
          
           
             You
             leave
             me
             ,
             Antony
             ;
             and
             yet
             I
             love
             you
             .
          
           
             Indeed
             I
             do
             :
             I
             have
             refus'd
             a
             Kingdom
             ,
          
           
             That
             's
             a
             Trifle
             :
          
           
             For
             I
             could
             part
             with
             life
             ;
             with
             any
             thing
             ,
          
           
             But
             only
             you
             .
             O
             let
             me
             die
             ,
             but
             with
             you
             !
          
           
             Is
             that
             a
             hard
             request
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Next
             living
             with
             you
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             all
             that
             Heav'n
             can
             give
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             He
             melts
             ;
             We
             conquer
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             No
             :
             you
             shall
             go
             :
             your
             Int'rest
             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
             Bosome
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             when
             your
             March
             begins
             ,
             let
             one
             run
             after
          
           
             Breathless
             almost
             for
             Joy
             ;
             and
             cry
             ,
             she
             's
             dead
             :
          
           
             The
             Soldiers
             shout
             ;
             you
             then
             perhaps
             may
             sigh
             ,
          
           
             And
             muster
             all
             your
             Roman
             Gravity
             ;
          
           
             Ventidius
             chides
             ;
             and
             strait
             your
             Brow
             clears
             up
             .
          
           
             As
             I
             had
             never
             been
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Gods
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             breath
             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.
             
          
           
             Dye
             !
             Rather
             let
             me
             perish
             :
             loos'nd
             Nature
          
           
             Leap
             from
             its
             hinges
             .
             Sink
             the
             props
             of
             Heav'n
             ,
          
           
             And
             fall
             the
             Skies
             to
             crush
             the
             neather
             World.
          
           
             My
             Eyes
             ,
             my
             Soul
             ;
             my
             all
             !
             —
          
           
             [
             Embraces
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             And
             what
             's
             this
             Toy
          
           
             In
             ballance
             with
             your
             Fortune
             ,
             Honor
             ,
             Fame
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             What
             is
             't
             ,
             Ventidius
             ?
             it
             out-weighs
             'em
             all
             ;
          
           
             Why
             ,
             we
             have
             more
             than
             Conquer'd
             Caesar
             now
             :
          
           
             My
             Queen
             's
             not
             only
             Innocent
             ,
             but
             Loves
             me
             .
          
           
             This
             ,
             this
             is
             she
             who
             drags
             me
             down
             to
             ruin
             !
          
           
             '
             But
             ,
             could
             she
             'scape
             without
             me
             ,
             with
             what
             haste
          
           
             Would
             she
             let
             slip
             her
             hold
             ,
             and
             make
             to
             shore
             ,
          
           
             And
             never
             look
             behind
             !
          
           
           
             Down
             on
             thy
             knees
             ,
             Blasphemer
             as
             thou
             art
             ,
          
           
             And
             ask
             forgiveness
             of
             wrong'd
             Innocence
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             rather
             die
             ,
             than
             take
             it
             .
             Will
             you
             go
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Go
             !
             Whither
             ?
             go
             from
             all
             that
             's
             excellent
             !
          
           
             Faith
             ,
             Honour
             ,
             Virtue
             ,
             all
             good
             things
             forbid
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             should
             go
             from
             her
             ,
             who
             sets
             my
             love
          
           
             Above
             the
             price
             of
             Kingdoms
             .
             Give
             ,
             you
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             Give
             to
             your
             Boy
             ,
             your
             Caesar
             ,
          
           
             This
             Rattle
             of
             a
             Globe
             to
             play
             withal
             ,
          
           
             This
             Gu-gau
             World
             ,
             and
             put
             him
             cheaply
             off
             :
          
           
             I
             'll
             not
             be
             pleas'd
             with
             less
             than
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleo.
             
          
           
             She
             wholly
             yours
             .
             My
             heart
             's
             so
             full
             of
             joy
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             shall
             do
             some
             wild
             extravagance
          
           
             Of
             Love
             in
             publick
             ;
             and
             the
             foolish
             World
             ,
          
           
             Which
             knows
             not
             tenderness
             ,
             will
             think
             me
             Mad.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             O
             Women
             !
             Women
             !
             Women
             !
             all
             the
             Gods
          
           
             Have
             not
             such
             pow'r
             of
             doing
             good
             to
             Man
             ,
          
           
             As
             you
             of
             doing
             harm
             .
          
           
             [
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Our
             Men
             are
             Arm'd
             .
          
           
             Unbar
             the
             Gate
             that
             looks
             to
             
             Caesar's
             Camp
             ;
          
           
             I
             would
             revenge
             the
             Treachery
             he
             mea●…
             me
             ;
          
           
             And
             long
             security
             makes
             Conquest
             easie
             .
          
           
             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
             once
             Triumph
             o'er
             Caesar
             e're
             we
             die
             .
          
           
             [
             Exeunt
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           ACT
           III.
           
        
         
           At
           one
           door
           ,
           Enter
           
             Cleopatra
             ,
             Charmion
             ,
             Iras
          
           ,
           and
           Alexas
           ,
           a
           Train
           of
           Aegyptians
           :
           at
           the
           other
           ,
           Antony
           and
           Romans
           .
           The
           entrance
           on
           both
           sides
           is
           prepar'd
           by
           Musick
           ;
           the
           Trumpets
           first
           sounding
           on
           
           Antony's
           part
           :
           then
           answer'd
           by
           Timbrels
           ,
           &c.
           on
           
           Cleopatra's
           .
           Charmion
           and
           Iras
           hold
           a
           Laurel
           Wreath
           betwixt
           them
           .
           A
           Dance
           of
           Aegyptians
           .
           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
             pleas'd
             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
             joinst
             us
             well
             ,
             my
             Love
             !
          
           
             Suppose
             me
             come
             from
             the
             Phlegraean
             Plains
             ,
          
           
             Where
             gasping
             Gyants
             lay
             ,
             cleft
             by
             my
             Sword
             :
          
           
             And
             Mountain
             tops
             par'd
             off
             each
             other
             blow
             ,
          
           
             To
             bury
             those
             I
             slew
             :
             receive
             me
             ,
             Goddess
             :
          
           
             Let
             Caesar
             spread
             his
             subtle
             Nets
             ,
             like
             Vulcan
             ,
          
           
             In
             thy
             embraces
             I
             would
             be
             beheld
          
           
             By
             Heav'n
             and
             Earth
             at
             once
             :
          
           
             And
             make
             their
             envy
             what
             they
             meant
             their
             sport
          
           
             Let
             those
             who
             took
             us
             blush
             ;
             I
             would
             love
             on
          
           
             With
             awful
             State
             ,
             regardless
             of
             their
             frowns
             ,
          
           
             As
             their
             superior
             God.
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             satiety
             of
             Love
             ,
             in
             thee
             ;
          
           
             Enjoy'd
             ,
             thou
             still
             art
             new
             ;
             perpetual
             Spring
          
           
             Is
             in
             thy
             arms
             ;
             the
             ripen'd
             fruit
             but
             falls
             ,
          
           
             And
             blossoms
             rise
             to
             fill
             its
             empty
             place
             ;
          
           
             And
             I
             grow
             rich
             by
             giving
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Ventidius
             ,
             and
             stands
             apart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             now
             the
             danger
             's
             past
             ,
             your
             General
             〈◊〉
          
           
             He
             joyns
             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
             flatter'd
             me
             in
             any
             vice
             ,
          
           
             But
             awes
             me
             with
             his
             virtue
             :
             ev'n
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Emperor
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             looking
             back
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             the
             old
             argument
             ;
             I
             pr'ythee
             spare
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             But
             this
             one
             hearing
             ,
             Emperor
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Let
             go
          
           
             My
             Robe
             ;
             or
             ,
             by
             my
             Father
             Hercules
             —
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             By
             Hercules
             his
             Father
             ,
             that
             's
             yet
             greater
             ,
          
           
             I
             bring
             you
             somewhat
             you
             would
             wish
             to
             know
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thou
             see'st
             we
             are
             observ'd
             ;
             attend
             me
             here
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             'll
             return
             .
          
           
             [
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'm
             waining
             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
             lye
             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
             dislodg'd
             their
             Troops
             ,
          
           
             They
             look
             on
             us
             at
             distance
             ,
             and
             ,
             like
             Curs
          
           
             Scap'd
             from
             the
             Lions
             paws
             ,
             they
             bay
             far
             off
             ,
          
           
             And
             lick
             their
             wounds
             ,
             and
             saintly
             threaten
             War.
          
           
             Five
             thousand
             Romans
             with
             their
             faces
             upward
             ,
          
           
             ●…ye
             breathless
             on
             the
             Plain
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             well
             :
             and
             he
          
           
             Who
             lost
             'em
             ,
             could
             have
             spar'd
             Ten
             thousand
             more
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             if
             ,
             by
             this
             advantage
             ,
             you
             could
             gain
          
           
             An
             easier
             Peace
             ,
             while
             Caesar
             doubts
             the
             Chance
          
           
             Of
             Arms
             !
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             think
             not
             on
             't
             ,
             Ventidius
             ;
          
           
             The
             Boy
             pursues
             my
             ruin
             ,
             he●…ll
             no
             peace
             :
          
           
             His
             malice
             is
             considerate
             in
             advantage
             ;
          
           
             O
             ,
             he
             's
             the
             coolest
             Murderer
             ,
             so
             stanch
             ,
          
           
             He
             kills
             ,
             and
             keeps
             his
             temper
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Have
             you
             no
             friend
          
           
             In
             all
             his
             Army
             ,
             who
             has
             power
             to
             move
             him
             ,
          
           
             Mecaenas
             ,
             or
             Agrippa
             might
             do
             much
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             They
             're
             both
             too
             deep
             in
             
             Caesar's
             interests
             ,
          
           
             We
             'll
             work
             it
             out
             by
             dint
             of
             Sword
             ,
             or
             perish
             ,
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             ●…ain
             I
             would
             find
             some
             other
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thank
             thy
             love
             .
          
           
             Some
             four
             or
             five
             such
             Victories
             as
             this
             ,
          
           
             Will
             save
             thy
             farther
             pains
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Expect
             no
             more
             ;
             Caesar
             is
             on
             his
             Guard
             :
          
           
             I
             know
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             you
             have
             conquer'd
             against
             odds
             ;
          
           
             But
             still
             you
             draw
             Supplies
             from
             one
             poor
             Town
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             Aegyptians
             :
             He
             has
             all
             the
             World
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             at
             his
             back
             ,
             Nations
             come
             pouring
             in
             ,
          
           
             To
             fill
             the
             gaps
             you
             make
             .
             Pray
             think
             again
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Why
             dost
             thou
             drive
             me
             from
             my self
             ,
             to
             search
          
           
             For
             Foreign
             aids
             ?
             to
             hunt
             my
             memory
             ,
          
           
             And
             range
             all
             o'er
             a
             wast
             and
             barren
             place
          
           
             To
             find
             a
             Friend
             ?
             The
             wretched
             have
             no
             Friends
             —
          
           
             Yet
             I
             had
             one
             ,
             the
             bravest
             Youth
             of
             Rome
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             Caesar
             loves
             beyond
             the
             Love
             of
             Women
             ;
          
           
             He
             could
             resolve
             his
             mind
             ,
             as
             Fire
             does
             Wax
             ,
          
           
             From
             that
             hard
             rugged
             Image
             ,
             melt
             him
             down
             ,
          
           
             And
             mould
             him
             in
             what
             softer
             form
             he
             pleas'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Him
             would
             I
             see
             ;
             that
             Man
             of
             all
             the
             world
             :
          
           
             Just
             such
             a
             one
             we
             want
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             He
             lov'd
             me
             too
             .
          
           
             I
             was
             his
             Soul
             ;
             he
             liv'd
             not
             but
             in
             me
             :
          
           
             We
             were
             so
             clos'd
             within
             each
             others
             Breasts
             ,
          
           
             The
             Rivets
             were
             not
             found
             that
             join'd
             us
             first
             .
          
           
             That
             does
             not
             reach
             us
             yet
             :
             we
             were
             so
             mixt
             ,
          
           
             As
             meeting
             Streams
             ,
             both
             to
             our selves
             were
             lost
             ;
          
           
             We
             were
             one
             Mass
             ;
             we
             could
             not
             give
             or
             take
             ,
          
           
             But
             from
             the
             same
             ;
             for
             he
             was
             I
             ,
             I
             he
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             He
             moves
             as
             I
             would
             wish
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             After
             this
             ,
          
           
             I
             need
             not
             tell
             his
             Name
             :
             't
             was
             Dollabella
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             He
             's
             now
             in
             
             Caesar's
             Camp.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             matter
             where
             ,
          
           
             Since
             he
             's
             no
             longer
             mine
             .
             He
             took
             unkindly
          
           
             That
             I
             forbad
             him
             
             Cleopatra's
             sight
             ;
          
           
             Because
             I
             fear'd
             he
             lov'd
             her
             :
             he
             confess'd
          
           
             He
             had
             a
             warmth
             ,
             which
             ,
             for
             my
             sake
             ,
             he
             stifled
             ;
          
           
             For
             't
             were
             impossible
             that
             two
             ,
             so
             one
             ,
          
           
             Should
             not
             have
             lov'd
             the
             same
             .
             When
             he
             departed
             ,
          
           
             He
             took
             no
             leave
             ;
             and
             that
             confirm'd
             my
             thoughts
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             It
             argues
             that
             he
             lov'd
             you
             more
             than
             her
             ,
          
           
             ●…lse
             he
             had
             staid
             ;
             but
             he
             perceiv'd
             you
             jealous
             ,
          
           
             And
             would
             not
             grieve
             his
             Friend
             :
             I
             know
             he
             love
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             should
             have
             seen
             him
             then
             ere
             now
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Perhaps
          
           
             He
             has
             thus
             long
             been
             lab'ring
             for
             your
             Peace
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Would
             he
             were
             here
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Would
             you
             believe
             he
             lov'd
             you
             ?
          
           
             I
             read
             your
             Answer
             in
             your
             Eyes
             ;
             you
             would
             .
          
           
             Not
             to
             conceal
             it
             longer
             ,
             he
             has
             sent
          
           
             A
             Messenger
             from
             
             Caesar's
             Camp
             ,
             with
             Letters
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Let
             him
             appear
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             bring
             him
             instantly
             .
          
           
             Exit
             Ventidius
             ,
             and
             Re-enters
             immediately
             with
             Dollabella
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             he
             himself
             ,
             himself
             ,
             by
             holy
             Friendship
          
           
             [
             Runs
             to
             embrace
             him
             .
          
           
             Art
             thou
             return'd
             at
             last
             ,
             my
             better
             half
             ?
          
           
             Come
             ,
             give
             me
             all
             my self
             .
          
           
             Let
             me
             not
             live
             ,
          
           
             If
             the
             young
             Bridegroom
             ,
             Ionging
             for
             his
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Was
             ever
             half
             so
             fond
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             must
             be
             silent
             ;
             for
             my
             Soul
             is
             busie
          
           
             About
             a
             noble
             Work
             :
             she
             's
             new
             come
             home
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             long
             absent
             Man
             ,
             and
             wanders
             o'er
          
           
             Each
             Room
             ,
             a
             Stranger
             to
             her
             own
             ,
             to
             loo●…
          
           
             If
             all
             be
             safe
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             what
             's
             left
             of
             m●…
          
           
             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
             rais'd
             my
             Fortunes
             ,
          
           
             Are
             all
             dry'd
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             grudg'd
             it
             to
             my self
             ;
             methought
             I
             robb'd
          
           
             Thee
             of
             thy
             part
             .
             But
             ,
             Oh
             my
             Dollabella
             !
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             beheld
             me
             other
             than
             I
             am
             .
          
           
             Hast
             thou
             not
             seen
             my
             morning
             Chambers
             fill'd
          
           
             With
             Sc●…pter'd
             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
             ,
             watch'd
             my
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             at
             my
             least
             Command
             ,
             all
             started
             out
          
           
             Like
             Racers
             to
             the
             Gaol
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Slaves
             to
             your
             Fortune
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Fortune
             is
             
             Caesar's
             now
             ;
             and
             what
             am
             I
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             What
             you
             have
             made
             your self
             ;
             I
             will
             not
             flatter
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Is
             this
             friendly
             done
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             Ma●…
             ,
          
           
             How
             thou
             upbraid'st
             my
             Love
             :
             The
             Queen
             has
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             too
             hast
             a
             Soul.
             Canst
             thou
             remember
          
           
             When
             ,
             swell'd
             with
             hatred
             ,
             thou
             beheld'st
             her
             first
          
           
             As
             Accessary
             to
             thy
             Brothers
             Death
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Spare
             my
             Remembrance
             ;
             't
             was
             a
             guilty
             day
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             the
             blush
             hangs
             here
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             To
             clear
             her self
             ,
          
           
             For
             sending
             him
             no
             Aid
             ,
             she
             came
             from
             Egypt
             .
          
           
             Her
             Gally
             down
             the
             Silver
             Cydnos
             row'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Tackling
             Silk
             ,
             the
             Streamers
             wav'd
             with
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             The
             gentle
             Winds
             were
             lodg'd
             in
             Purple
             Sails
             :
          
           
             Her
             Nymphs
             ,
             like
             Nereids
             ,
             round
             her
             Couch
             ,
             were
             plac'd
             ;
          
           
             Where
             she
             ,
             another
             Sea-born
             Venus
             ,
             lay
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             :
             I
             would
             not
             hear
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             you
             must
             !
          
           
             She
             lay
             ,
             and
             leant
             her
             Cheek
             upon
             her
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             And
             cast
             a
             Look
             so
             languishingly
             sweet
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             ,
             secure
             of
             all
             Beholders
             Hearts
             ,
          
           
             Neglecting
             she
             could
             take
             'em
             :
             Boy
             's
             ,
             like
             Cupids
             ,
          
           
             Stood
             fanning
             ,
             with
             their
             painted
             Wings
             ,
             the
             Winds
          
           
             That
             plaid
             about
             her
             Face
             :
             But
             if
             she
             smil'd
             ,
          
           
             A
             darting
             Glory
             seem'd
             to
             blaze
             abroad
             :
          
           
             That
             Mens
             desiring
             Eyes
             were
             never
             weary'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             hung
             upon
             the
             Object
             :
             To
             soft
             Flutes
          
           
             The
             Silver
             Oars
             kept
             Time
             ;
             and
             while
             they
             plaid
             ,
          
           
             The
             Hearing
             gave
             new
             Pleasure
             to
             the
             Sight
             ;
          
           
             And
             both
             to
             Thought
             :
             't
             was
             Heav'n
             or
             somewhat
             more
             ;
          
           
             For
             she
             so
             charm'd
             all
             Hearts
             ,
             that
             gazing
             Crowds
          
           
             Stood
             panting
             on
             the
             shore
             ,
             and
             wanted
             Breath
          
           
             To
             give
             their
             welcome
             Voice
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             Dollabella
             ,
             where
             was
             then
             thy
             Soul
             ?
          
           
             Was
             not
             thy
             Fury
             quite
             disarm'd
             with
             Wonder
             ?
          
           
             Didst
             tho●…
             not
             shrink
             behind
             me
             from
             those
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             And
             whisper
             in
             my
             Ears
             ?
             Oh
             ,
             tell
             her
             not
          
           
             That
             I
             accus'd
             her
             wi●…h
             my
             Brothers
             Death
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             
          
           
             And
             should
             my
             Weakness
             be
             a
             Plea
             fer
             yours
             ?
          
           
             Mine
             was
             an
             Age
             when
             Love
             might
             be
             excus'd
             ,
          
           
             When
             kindly
             war●…th
             ,
             and
             when
             my
             springing
             youth
          
           
             Made
             it
             a
             Debt
             to
             Nature
             .
             Yours
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Speak
             boldly
             .
          
           
             Yours
             ,
             he
             would
             say
             ;
             in
             your
             declining
             Age
             ,
          
           
             When
             no
             more
             heat
             was
             left
             but
             what
             you
             forc'd
             ,
          
           
             When
             all
             the
             Sap
             was
             needful
             for
             the
             Trunk
             ,
          
           
             When
             it
             went
             down
             ,
             then
             you
             constrain'd
             the
             Course
             ,
          
           
             And
             robb'd
             from
             Nature
             ,
             to
             supply
             Desire
             ;
          
           
           
             In
             you
             (
             I
             would
             not
             use
             so
             harsh
             a
             Word
             )
          
           
             But
             't
             is
             plain
             Dotage
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Ha!
             
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             urg'd
             too
             home
             .
          
           
             But
             yet
             the
             loss
             was
             private
             that
             I
             made
             ;
          
           
             'T
             was
             but
             my self
             I
             lost
             :
             I
             lost
             no
             Legions
             ;
          
           
             I
             had
             no
             World
             to
             lose
             ,
             no
             Peoples
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             This
             from
             a
             Friend
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             Anthony
             ,
             a
             true
             one
             ;
          
           
             A
             Friend
             so
             tender
             ,
             that
             each
             Word
             I
             speak
          
           
             Stabs
             my
             own
             Heart
             ,
             before
             it
             reach
             your
             Ear.
          
           
             O
             ,
             judge
             me
             not
             less
             kind
             because
             I
             chide
             :
          
           
             To
             Caesar
             I
             excuse
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant
             
          
           
             O
             ye
             Gods
             !
          
           
             Have
             I
             then
             liv'd
             to
             be
             excus'd
             to
             Caesar
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             As
             to
             your
             Equal
             :
          
           
             While
             I
             wear
             this
             ,
             he
             never
             shall
             be
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             
          
           
             I
             bring
             Conditions
             from
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Are
             they
             Noble
             ?
          
           
             Methinks
             thou
             shouldst
             not
             bring
             'em
             else
             ;
             yet
             he
          
           
             Is
             sull
             of
             deep
             dissembling
             ;
             knows
             no
             Honour
             ,
          
           
             Divided
             from
             his
             Int'rest
             .
             Fate
             mistook
             him
             ;
          
           
             For
             Nature
             meant
             him
             for
             an
             Usurer
             ,
          
           
             He
             's
             fit
             indeed
             to
             buy
             ,
             not
             conquer
             Kingdoms
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Then
             ,
             granting
             this
             ,
          
           
             What
             Pow'r
             was
             theirs
             who
             wrought
             so
             hard
             a
             Temper
          
           
             To
             honourable
             Terms
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             It
             was
             my
             Dollabella
             ,
             or
             some
             God.
             
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Nor
             I
             ;
             nor
             yet
             Mecoenas
             ,
             nor
             Agrippa
             :
          
           
             They
             were
             your
             Enemies
             ;
             and
             I
             a
             Friend
          
           
             Too
             weak
             alone
             ;
             yet
             't
             was
             a
             
             Roman's
             Deed.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             like
             a
             Roman
             done
             :
             show
             me
             that
             Man
          
           
             Who
             has
             preserv'd
             my
             Life
             ,
             my
             Love
             ,
             my
             Honour
             ;
          
           
             Let
             me
             but
             see
             his
             Face
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             That
             task
             is
             mine
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             Hea●…'n
             thou
             know'st
             how
             pleasing
             .
          
           
             Exit
             Vent
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             You
             'll
             remember
          
           
             To
             whom
             you
             stand
             oblig'd
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             When
             I
             forget
             it
             ,
          
           
             Be
             thou
             unkind
             ,
             and
             that
             's
             my
             greatest
             curse
             .
          
           
             My
             Queen
             shall
             thank
             him
             too
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             fear
             she
             will
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             But
             she
             shall
             do
             't
             :
             the
             Queen
             ,
             my
             Dollabella
             !
          
           
             Hast
             thou
             not
             still
             some
             grudgings
             of
             thy
             Fever
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             not
             see
             her
             lost
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Wh●…n
             I
             sorsake
             her
             ,
          
           
             Leave
             me
             ,
             my
             be●…ter
             Sta●…s
             ;
             f●…r
             she
             has
             truth
          
           
           
             Beyond
             her
             beauty
             .
             Caesar
             tempted
             her
             ,
          
           
             At
             no
             less
             price
             than
             Kingdoms
             ,
             to
             betray
             me
             ;
          
           
             But
             she
             resisted
             all
             :
             and
             yet
             thou
             chid'st
             me
          
           
             For
             loving
             her
             too
             well
             .
             Could
             I
             do
             so
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Yes
             there
             's
             my
             reason
             .
          
           
             Re-enter
             Ventidius
             ,
             with
             Octavia
             ,
             leading
             Antony's
             two
             little
             Daughters
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Where
             ?
             —
             Octavia
             there
             !
          
           
             (
             Starting
             back
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             What
             ,
             is
             she
             poyson
             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
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             For
             shame
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             if
             not
             for
             Love
             ,
             receive
             'em
          
           
             With
             kinder
             Eyes
             .
             If
             you
             confess
             a
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Meet
             'em
             ,
             embrace
             'em
             ,
             bid
             'em
             welcome
             to
             you
             .
          
           
             Your
             Arms
             should
             open
             ,
             ev'n
             without
             ;
             your
             knowledge
             ,
          
           
             To
             clasp
             'em
             in
             ;
             your
             Feet
             should
             turn
             to
             Wings
             ,
          
           
             To
             bear
             you
             to
             'em
             ;
             and
             your
             Eyes
             dart
             out
             ,
          
           
             And
             aim
             a
             kiss
             ere
             you
             could
             reach
             the
             Lips.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             stood
             amaz'd
             to
             think
             how
             they
             came
             hither
             .
          
        
         
           
             Vent
             .
          
           
             I
             sent
             for
             'em
             ;
             I
             brought
             'em
             in
             ,
             unknown
          
           
             To
             
             Cleopatra's
             Guards
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Yet
             are
             you
             cold
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Thus
             long
             I
             have
             attended
             for
             my
             welcome
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ,
             as
             a
             Stranger
             ,
             sure
             I
             might
             expect
             ,
          
           
             Who
             am
             I
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             
             Caesar's
             Sister
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             That
             's
             unkind
             !
          
           
             Had
             I
             been
             nothing
             more
             than
             
             Caesar's
             Sister
             ,
          
           
             Know
             ,
             I
             had
             still
             remain'd
             in
             
             Caesar's
             Camp
             ;
          
           
             But
             you
             Octavi●…
             ,
             your
             much
             injur'd
             Wise
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             banish'd
             from
             your
             Bed
             ,
             driv'n
             from
             your
             House
             ,
          
           
             In
             spight
             of
             
             Caesar's
             Sister
             ,
             still
             is
             yours
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ;
             't
             is
             mine
             ,
             and
             I
             will
             have
             it
             .
          
           
             [
             T●…king
             h●…s
             hand
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Do
             ,
             take
             it
             ,
             thou
             deserv'st
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             ●…ear
             ,
             Octavia
             ,
             you
             have
             begg'd
             my
             Life
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Begg'd
             it
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             begg'd
             it
             ,
             my
             Ambassadress
             ,
          
           
           
             Poorly
             and
             basely
             begg'd
             it
             of
             your
             Brother
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Poorly
             and
             bafely
             I
             could
             never
             beg
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             could
             my
             Brother
             grant
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Shall
             I
             ,
             who
             ,
             to
             my
             kneeling
             Slave
             ,
             could
             say
             ,
          
           
             Rise
             up
             ,
             and
             be
             a
             King
             ;
             shall
             I
             fall
             down
          
           
             And
             cry
             ,
             Forgive
             me
             ,
             Caesar
             ?
             shall
             I
             set
          
           
             A
             Man
             ,
             my
             Equal
             ,
             in
             the
             place
             of
             Jove
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             could
             give
             me
             being
             ?
             No
             ;
             that
             word
             ,
          
           
             Forgive
             ,
             would
             choak
             me
             up
             ,
          
           
             And
             die
             upon
             my
             Tongue
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             You
             shall
             not
             need
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             need
             it
             .
             Come
             ,
             you
             've
             all
             betray'd
             me
             :
          
           
             My
             Friend
             too
             !
             To
             receive
             some
             vile
             Conditions
             .
          
           
             My
             Wife
             has
             bought
             me
             ,
             with
             her
             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
             't
             is
             mine
             ;
             it
             never
             shall
             be
             said
          
           
             
             Octavia's
             Husband
             was
             her
             Brothers
             Slave
             .
          
           
             Sir
             ,
             you
             are
             Free
             ;
             Free
             ,
             ev'n
             from
             her
             you
             loath
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             tho'
             my
             Brother
             bargains
             for
             your
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             me
             the
             Price
             and
             Cement
             of
             your
             Peace
             ,
          
           
             I
             have
             a
             Soul
             like
             yours
             ;
             I
             cannot
             take
          
           
             Your
             Love
             as
             Alms
             ,
             nor
             beg
             what
             I
             deserve
             .
          
           
             I
             'll
             tell
             my
             Brother
             we
             are
             reconcil'd
             ;
          
           
             He
             shall
             draw
             back
             his
             Troops
             ,
             and
             you
             shall
             march
          
           
             To
             rule
             the
             East
             :
             I
             may
             be
             dropt
             at
             Athens
             ;
          
           
             No
             matter
             where
             ,
             I
             never
             will
             complain
             ,
          
           
             But
             only
             keep
             the
             barren
             Name
             of
             Wife
             ,
          
           
             And
             rid
             you
             of
             the
             trouble
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Was
             ever
             such
             a
             strife
             of
             sullen
             Honour
             !
          
           
             Both
             scorn'd
             to
             be
             oblig'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             she
             has
             toucht
             him
             in
             the
             tender'st
             part
             ;
          
           
             S●…e
             how
             he
             reddens
             with
             despight
             and
             shame
          
           
             To
             be
             out-done
             in
             Generosity
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             See
             how
             he
             winks
             !
             how
             he
             dries
             up
             a
             Tear
             ,
          
           
             That
             fain
             would
             fall
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Octavia
             ,
             I
             have
             heard
             you
             ,
             and
             must
             praise
          
           
             The
             greatness
             of
             your
             Soul
             ;
          
           
             But
             cannot
             yield
             to
             what
             you
             have
             propos'd
             :
          
           
             For
             I
             can
             ne'er
             be
             conquer'd
             but
             by
             Love
             ;
          
           
             A●…d
             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
             oblig'd
          
           
             To
             one
             who
             Loves
             me
             not
             ,
             who
             ,
             to
             her self
             ,
          
           
             May
             call
             me
             thankless
             and
             ungrateful
             Man
             :
          
           
             I
             'll
             not
             endure
             it
             ,
             no.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'm
             glad
             it
             pinches
             there
             .
          
        
         
           
             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
             ow'd
             me
             for
             your
             Life
             ,
          
           
             And
             ow'd
             it
             to
             my
             Duty
             ,
             not
             my
             Love.
          
           
             I
             have
             been
             injur'd
             ,
             and
             my
             haughty
             Soul
          
           
             Could
             brook
             but
             ill
             the
             Man
             who
             slights
             my
             Bed.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Therefore
             you
             Love
             me
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Therefore
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             I
             should
             not
             love
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Therefore
             you
             wou'd
             leave
             me
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             And
             therefore
             I
             should
             leave
             you
             —
             if
             I
             could
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             Dollabella
             ,
             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
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Justice
             and
             Pity
             both
             plead
             for
             Octavia
             ;
          
           
             For
             Cleopatra
             ,
             neither
             .
          
           
             One
             would
             be
             ruin'd
             with
             you
             ;
             but
             she
             first
          
           
             Had
             ruin'd
             you
             :
             the
             other
             ,
             you
             have
             ruin'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             she
             would
             preserve
             you
             .
          
           
             In
             every
             thing
             their
             Merits
             are
             unequal
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             my
             distracted
             Soul
             !
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Sweet
             Heav'n
             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
             your selves
             ,
             from
             that
             bad
             Woman
             .
          
           
             You
             ,
             Agrippina
             ,
             hang
             upon
             his
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             And
             you
             ,
             Antonia
             ,
             clasp
             about
             his
             Waste
             :
          
           
             If
             he
             will
             shake
             you
             off
             ,
             if
             he
             will
             dash
             you
          
           
             Against
             the
             Pavement
             ,
             you
             must
             bear
             it
             ,
             Children
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             you
             are
             mine
             ,
             and
             I
             was
             born
             to
             suffer
             .
          
           
             [
             Here
             the
             Children
             go
             to
             him
             ,
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Was
             ever
             sight
             so
             moving
             !
             Emperor
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Friend
             !
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Husband
             !
          
        
         
           
             Both
             Childr
             .
          
           
             Father
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             am
             vanquish'd
             :
             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
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             O
             happy
             Change
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             ;
          
           
             Ev'n
             to
             thy
             Brothers
             Camp.
             
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             All
             there
             are
             yours
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Alexas
             hastily
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             The
             Queen
             ,
             my
             Mistress
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             and
             yours
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             past
             .
             Octavia
             ,
             you
             shall
             stay
             this
             night
             ;
             To
             morrow
             ,
          
           
             Caesar
             and
             we
             are
             one
             .
          
           
             [
             Ex.
             leading
             
               Octavia
               ,
               Doll
            
             .
             and
             the
             Children
             follow
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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-scull'd
             Hero
             ,
          
           
             This
             blunt
             unthinking
             Instrument
             of
             Death
             ,
          
           
             With
             plain
             dull
             Virtue
             ,
             has
             out-gone
             my
             Wit
             :
          
           
             Pleasure
             forsook
             my
             early'st
             Infancy
             ,
          
           
             The
             Luxury
             of
             others
             robb'd
             my
             Cradle
             ,
          
           
             And
             ravish'd
             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
             follow'd
             my
             advice
             ,
          
           
             Then
             he
             had
             been
             betray'd
             ,
             who
             now
             forsakes
             .
          
           
             She
             dies
             for
             love
             ;
             but
             she
             has
             known
             its
             joys
             :
          
           
             Gods
             ,
             is
             this
             just
             ,
             that
             I
             ,
             who
             knows
             no
             joys
             ,
          
           
             Must
             die
             ,
             because
             she
             loves
             ?
          
           
             Enter
             Cleopatra
             ,
             Charmion
             ,
             Iras
             ,
             Train
             .
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             I
             have
             seen
             what
             blasts
             my
             Eyes
             !
          
           
             
             Octavia's
             here
             !
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
          
           
             Confin'd
             to
             her
             ?
             It
             is
             .
             Poor
             I
             was
             made
          
           
             Of
             that
             course
             matter
             which
             ,
             when
             she
             was
             finish'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Gods
             threw
             by
             ,
             for
             rubbish
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             She
             's
             indeed
             a
             very
             Miracle
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Death
             to
             my
             hopes
             ,
             a
             Miracle
             !
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             bowing
             .
          
           
             A
             Miracle
             ;
          
           
             I
             mean
             of
             Goodness
             ;
             for
             in
             Beauty
             ,
             Madam
             ,
          
           
             You
             make
             all
             Wonders
             cease
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             was
             too
             rash
             :
          
           
             Take
             this
             in
             part
             of
             recompence
             .
             But
             ,
             Oh
             ,
          
           
             [
             Giving
             a
             Ring
             .
          
           
             I
             fear
             thou
             flatter'st
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             She
             comes
             !
             she
             's
             here
             !
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Flie
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             Caesar
             s
             Sister
             !
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Were
             she
             the
             Sister
             of
             the
             Thund'rer
             Jove
             ,
          
           
             And
             bore
             her
             Brother's
             Lightning
             in
             her
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             would
             I
             face
             my
             Rival
             .
          
           
             [
             Meets
             Octav.
             with
             
               Ventid
               .
               Octav.
            
             bears
             up
             to
             her
             .
             Their
             Trains
             come
             up
             on
             either
             side
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             I
             need
             not
             ask
             if
             you
             are
             Cleopatra
             ,
          
           
             Your
             haughty
             Carriage
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Peace
             ,
             peace
             ,
             my
             Lover's
             Juno
             .
          
           
             When
             he
             grew
             weary
             of
             that
             Houshold-Clog
             ,
          
           
             He
             chose
             my
             easier
             Bonds
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             I
             wonder
             not
          
           
             Your
             Bonds
             are
             easie
             ;
             you
             have
             long
             been
             practis'd
          
           
             In
             that
             lascivious
             Art
             :
             he
             's
             not
             the
             first
          
           
             For
             whom
             you
             spread
             your
             snares
             :
             let
             Caesar
             witness
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             lov'd
             not
             Caesar
             ;
             't
             was
             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
             .
          
           
             Oct.
             coming
             up
             close
             to
             her
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             view
             nearer
          
           
             That
             Face
             ,
             which
             has
             so
             long
             usurp'd
             my
             right
             ,
          
           
             To
             find
             th'
             inevitable
             Charms
             ,
             that
             catch
          
           
             Mankind
             so
             sure
             ,
             that
             ruin'd
             my
             dear
             Lord.
             
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             you
             do
             well
             to
             search
             ;
             for
             had
             you
             known
          
           
             But
             half
             these
             Charms
             ,
             you
             had
             not
             lost
             his
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Far
             be
             their
             knowledge
             from
             a
             Roman
             Lady
             ,
          
           
             Far
             from
             a
             modest
             Wife
             .
             Shame
             of
             our
             Sex
             ,
          
           
             Dost
             thou
             not
             Blush
             ,
             to
             own
             those
             black
             Endearments
          
           
             That
             make
             sin
             pleasing
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             You
             may
             Blush
             ,
             who
             want
             'em
             :
             if
             bounteous
             Nature
             ,
             if
             indulgent
             Heav'n
          
           
             Have
             giv'n
             me
             Charms
             to
             please
             the
             bravest
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Should
             I
             not
             thank
             '
             em
             ?
             should
             I
             be
             asham'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             be
             Proud
             ?
             I
             am
             ,
             that
             he
             has
             lov'd
             me
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             when
             I
             love
             not
             him
             ,
             Heav'n
             change
             this
             Face
          
           
             For
             one
             like
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Thou
             lov'st
             him
             not
             so
             well
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             Love
             him
             better
             ,
             and
             deserve
             him
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             You
             do
             not
             ;
             cannot
             :
             you
             have
             been
             his
             ruine
             .
          
           
             W●…o
             made
             him
             cheap
             at
             Rome
             ,
             but
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
           
             Who
             made
             him
             scorn'd
             abroad
             ,
             but
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
           
             At
             Actium
             ,
             who
             betray'd
             him
             ?
             Cleopatra
             .
          
           
             Who
             made
             his
             Children
             Orphans
             ?
             and
             poor
             me
          
           
             A
             wretched
             Widow
             ?
             only
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Yet
             she
             who
             loves
             him
             best
             is
             Cleopatra
             .
          
           
             If
             you
             have
             suffer'd
             ,
             I
             have
             suffer'd
             more
             .
          
           
             You
             bear
             the
             specious
             Title
             of
             a
             Wife
             ,
          
           
             To
             gild
             your
             Cause
             ,
             and
             draw
             the
             pitying
             World
          
           
             To
             favour
             it
             :
             the
             World
             contemns
             poor
             me
             ;
          
           
             For
             I
             have
             lost
             my
             Honour
             ,
             lost
             my
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             And
             stain'd
             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
             cum
             suis.
             
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             And
             't
             is
             my
             Wish
             ,
          
           
             Now
             he
             is
             lost
             for
             whom
             alone
             I
             liv'd
             .
          
           
             My
             sight
             grows
             dim
             ,
             and
             every
             Object
             dances
             ,
          
           
             And
             swims
             before
             me
             ,
             in
             the
             maze
             of
             Death
             .
          
           
             My
             Spirits
             ,
             while
             they
             were
             oppos'd
             ,
             kept
             up
             ;
          
           
             They
             could
             not
             sink
             beneath
             a
             Rivals
             scorn
             :
          
           
             But
             now
             she
             's
             gone
             they
             faint
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Mine
             have
             had
             leisure
          
           
             To
             recollect
             their
             Strength
             ,
             and
             furnish
             Counsel
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             ruine
             her
             ;
             who
             else
             must
             ruine
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             my self
             ,
             to
             take
             alone
          
           
             My
             fill
             of
             Grief
             :
          
           
             There
             I
             till
             Death
             will
             his
             unkindness
             weep
             :
          
           
             As
             harmless
             Infants
             moan
             themselves
             asleep
             .
          
           
             Exeunt
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           ACT
           IV.
           
        
         
           Antony
           ,
           Dollabella
           .
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             WHy
             would
             you
             shift
             it
             from
             your self
             ,
             on
             me
             ?
          
           
             Can
             you
             not
             tell
             her
             you
             must
             part
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             cannot
             ,
          
           
             I
             could
             pull
             out
             an
             Eye
             ,
             and
             bid
             it
             go
             ,
          
           
             And
             t'other
             should
             not
             weep
             .
             Oh
             ,
             Dollabella
             ,
          
           
             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
             agen
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Nature
             has
             cast
             me
             in
             so
             soft
             a
             Mould
             ,
          
           
             That
             but
             to
             hear
             a
             Story
             feign'd
             for
             Pleasure
          
           
             Of
             some
             sad
             Lovers
             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
             thy self
             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
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             :
             Farewel
             .
          
           
             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
             preserv'd
             ,
          
           
             If
             I
             have
             pow'r
             with
             Caesar.
             —
             O
             ,
             be
             sure
          
           
             To
             think
             on
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Fear
             not
             ,
             I
             will
             remember
             .
          
           
             
               [
               Ant●…ny
            
             goes
             agi●…
             to
             the
             door
             ,
             and
             c●…mes
             back
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             And
             tell
             her
             ,
             too
             ,
             how
             much
             I
             was
             constrain'd
             ;
          
           
             I
             did
             not
             this
             ,
             but
             with
             extreamest
             force
             :
          
           
             D●…sire
             her
             not
             to
             hate
             my
             Memory
             ,
          
           
             For
             I
             still
             cherish
             hers
             ;
             —
             insist
             on
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             ,
             tho'
             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
             return'd
             ,
             I
             feel
          
           
             My
             Soul
             more
             tender
             ;
             and
             my
             next
             Command
          
           
             Would
             be
             to
             bid
             her
             stay
             ,
             and
             ruine
             both
             .
          
           
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             ,
             busie
             and
             blind
             ,
          
           
             Works
             all
             her
             folly
             up
             ,
             and
             casts
             it
             outward
          
           
             To
             the
             Worlds
             open
             view
             :
             thus
             I
             discover'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             blam'd
             the
             Love
             of
             ruin'd
             Antony
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             wish
             that
             I
             were
             he
             ,
             to
             be
             so
             ruin'd
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Ventidius
             above
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Alone
             ?
             and
             Talking
             to
             himself
             ?
             concern'd
             too
             ?
          
           
             Perhaps
             my
             Guess
             is
             right
             ;
             he
             lov'd
             her
             once
             ,
          
           
             And
             may
             pursue
             it
             still
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             O
             Friendship
             !
             Friendship
             !
          
           
             Ill
             canst
             thou
             answer
             this
             ;
             and
             Reason
             ,
             worse
             :
          
           
             Unfaithful
             in
             th'
             Attempt
             ;
             hopeless
             to
             win
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             if
             I
             win
             ,
             undone
             :
             mere
             madness
             all
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             th'
             occasion
             's
             fair
             .
             What
             injury
             ,
          
           
             To
             him
             ,
             to
             wear
             the
             Robe
             which
             he
             throws
             by
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             None
             ,
             none
             at
             all
             .
             This
             happens
             as
             I
             wish
             ,
          
           
             To
             ruine
             her
             yet
             more
             with
             Antony
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Cleopatra
             ,
             talking
             with
             
               Alexas
               ,
               Charmion
               ,
               Iras
            
             on
             the
             other
             side
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             She
             comes
             !
             What
             Charms
             have
             sorrow
             on
             that
             Face
             !
          
           
             Sorrow
             seems
             pleas'd
             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
             moments
             day
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             If
             she
             should
             love
             him
             too
             !
             Her
             Eunuch
             there
             !
          
           
             That
             Porcpisce
             bodes
             ill
             weather
             .
             Draw
             ,
             draw
             nearer
             ,
          
           
             Sweet
             Devil
             ,
             that
             I
             may
             hear
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Believe
             me
             ;
             try
          
           
             
               [
               Dollabella
            
             goes
             over
             to
             Charmi●…n
             and
             Iras
             ;
             seems
             to
             talk
             with
             them
             .
          
           
             To
             make
             him
             jealous
             ;
             jealousie
             is
             like
          
           
             A
             polisht
             Glass
             held
             to
             the
             lips
             when
             Life
             's
             in
             doubt
             :
          
           
             If
             there
             be
             Breath
             ,
             't
             will
             catch
             the
             damp
             and
             show
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             grant
             you
             Jealousie
             's
             a
             Proof
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             But
             't
             is
             a
             weak
             and
             unavailing
             Med'cine
             ;
          
           
             It
             puts
             out
             the
             Disease
             ,
             and
             makes
             it
             show
             ,
          
           
             But
             has
             no
             pow'r
             to
             cure
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             your
             last
             Remedy
             ,
             and
             strongest
             too
             :
          
           
             And
             then
             this
             Dollabella
             ,
             who
             so
             fit
          
           
             To
             practice
             on
             ?
             He
             's
             handsome
             ,
             valiant
             ,
             young
             ,
          
           
             And
             looks
             as
             he
             were
             laid
             for
             Nature's
             bait
          
           
             To
             catch
             weak
             Womens
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             houshold
             Dove
             ,
          
           
             Fond
             without
             Art
             ;
             and
             kind
             without
             Deceit
             ;
          
           
             But
             Fortune
             ,
             that
             has
             made
             a
             Mistress
             of
             me
             ,
          
           
             Hast
             thrust
             me
             out
             to
             the
             wide
             World
             ,
             unfurnish'd
          
           
             Of
             falshood
             to
             be
             happy
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Force
             your self
             .
          
           
             Th'
             event
             wil
             be
             ,
             your
             Lover
             will
             return
          
           
             Doubly
             desirous
             to
             possess
             the
             good
          
           
             Which
             once
             he
             ●…ar'd
             to
             lose
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             must
             Attempt
             it
             ;
          
           
             But
             Oh
             with
             what
             regret
             !
          
           
             Exit
             .
             Alex.
             (
             She
             comes
             up
             to
             
               Dollabella
               .
            
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             So
             ,
             now
             the
             Scene
             draws
             near
             ;
             they
             're
             in
             my
             reach
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             to
             Dol.
             
          
           
             Discoursing
             with
             my
             Women
             !
             Might
             not
             I
          
           
             Share
             in
             your
             Entertainment
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             You
             have
             been
          
           
             The
             Subject
             of
             it
             ,
             Madam
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             How
             ;
             and
             how
             ?
          
        
         
           
             ●…as
             .
          
           
             Such
             praises
             of
             your
             Beauty
             !
          
        
         
           
             
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Mere
             Poetry
             .
          
           
             Your
             Roman
             Wits
             ,
             your
             Gallus
             and
             Tibullus
             ,
          
           
             Have
             taught
             you
             this
             ●…rom
             Citheris
             and
             Delia.
             
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Those
             Roman
             Wits
             have
             never
             been
             in
             Egypt
             ,
          
           
             Citheris
             and
             Delia
             else
             had
             been
             unsung
             :
          
           
             I
             ,
             who
             have
             seen
             —
             had
             I
             been
             born
             a
             Poet
             ,
          
           
             Should
             chuse
             a
             nobler
             Name
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             You
             flatter
             me
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             No
             ,
             Madam
             ;
             yet
             he
             sent
             me
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Well
             ,
             he
             sent
             you
             —
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Of
             a
             less
             pleasing
             Errand
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             How
             less
             pleasing
             ?
          
           
             Less
             to
             you
             self
             ,
             or
             me
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Madam
             ,
             to
             both
             ;
          
           
             For
             you
             must
             mourn
             ,
             and
             I
             must
             grieve
             to
             cause
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             You
             ,
             Charmion
             ,
             and
             your
             Fellow
             ,
             stand
             at
             distance
             .
          
           
             (
             Aside
             .
             )
          
           
             Hold
             up
             ,
             my
             Spirits
             .
             —
             Well
             ,
             now
             your
             mournful
             matter
             ;
          
           
             For
             I
             'm
             prepar'd
             ,
             perhaps
             can
             Guess
             it
             too
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             wish
             you
             would
             ;
             for
             't
             is
             a
             thankless
             office
          
           
             To
             tell
             ill
             News
             :
             and
             I
             ,
             of
             all
             your
             Sex
             ,
          
           
             Most
             fear
             displeasing
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Of
             all
             your
             Sex
             ,
          
           
             I
             soonest
             could
             forgive
             you
             ,
             if
             you
             should
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven
             
          
           
             Most
             delicate
             advances
             !
             Woman
             !
             Woman
             !
          
           
             Dear
             damn'd
             ,
             inconstant
             Sex
             !
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             In
             the
             first
             place
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             to
             be
             forsaken
             ;
             is
             't
             not
             so
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             wish
             I
             could
             not
             Answer
             to
             that
             Question
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Then
             pass
             it
             o'er
             ,
             because
             it
             troubles
             you
             :
          
           
             I
             should
             have
             been
             more
             griev'd
             another
             time
             .
          
           
             Next
             ,
             I
             'm
             to
             lose
             my
             Kingdom
             .
             —
             Farewel
             ,
             Egypt
             .
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             is
             there
             any
             more
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Madam
             ,
             I
             fear
          
           
             Your
             too
             deep
             Sense
             of
             Grief
             has
             turn'd
             your
             Reason
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             I
             'm
             not
             run
             mad
             ;
             I
             can
             bear
             Fortune
             :
          
           
             And
             Love
             may
             be
             expell'd
             by
             other
             Love
             ,
          
           
             As
             Poysons
             are
             by
             Poysons
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             —
             You
             o'erjoy
             me
             ,
             Madam
             ,
          
           
             To
             find
             your
             Griefs
             so
             moderately
             born
             .
          
           
             You
             've
             heard
             the
             worst
             ;
             all
             are
             not
             false
             ,
             like
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             No
             ;
             Heav'n
             forbid
             they
             should
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Some
             Men
             are
             constant
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             And
             Constancy
             deserves
             Reward
             ,
             that
             's
             certain
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Deserves
             it
             not
             ;
             but
             give
             it
             leave
             to
             hope
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             swear
             thou
             hast
             my
             leave
             .
             I
             have
             enough
             :
          
           
             But
             how
             to
             manage
             this
             !
             Well
             ,
             I
             'll
             consider
             .
          
           
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             came
             prepar'd
             ,
          
           
             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
             easie
             ;
             and
             my
             Tongue
             ,
          
           
             Which
             on
             anothers
             Message
             was
             employ'd
             ,
          
           
             Would
             gladly
             speak
             its
             own
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Hold
             ,
             Dollabella
             .
          
           
             First
             tell
             me
             ,
             were
             you
             chosen
             by
             my
             Lord
             ?
          
           
             Or
             sought
             you
             this
             Employment
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             He
             pick'd
             me
             out
             ;
             and
             ,
             as
             his
             Bosom-Friend
             ,
          
           
             He
             Charg'd
             me
             with
             his
             words
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             The
             Message
             then
          
           
             I
             know
             was
             tender
             ,
             and
             each
             Accent
             smooth
             ,
          
           
             To
             molli●…e
             that
             rugged
             word
             Depart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             you
             mistake
             :
             he
             chose
             the
             harshest
             words
             ,
          
           
             With
             fiery
             Eyes
             ,
             and
             with
             contracted
             Brows
             ,
          
           
             He
             Coyn'd
             his
             Face
             in
             the
             severest
             stamp
             :
          
           
             And
             fury
             shook
             his
             Fabrick
             like
             an
             Earthquake
             ;
          
           
             He
             heav'd
             for
             vent
             ,
             and
             burst
             like
             bellowing
             Aetna
             ,
          
           
             In
             Sounds
             scarce
             humane
             ,
             "
             Hence
             ,
             away
             for
             ever
             :
          
           
             "
             Let
             her
             be
             gone
             ,
             the
             blot
             of
             my
             renown
             ,
          
           
             "
             And
             bane
             of
             all
             my
             hopes
             :
          
           
             [
             All
             the
             time
             of
             this
             Speech
             ,
             Cleop.
             seems
             more
             and
             more
             concern'd
             ,
             till
             she
             sinks
             quite
             down
             .
          
           
             "
             Let
             her
             be
             driv'n
             a●…
             far
             as
             Men
             can
             think
          
           
             "
             From
             Mans
             commerce
             :
             She
             'll
             poyson
             to
             the
             Center
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             I
             can
             bear
             no
             more
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Help
             ,
             help
             :
             Oh
             Wretch
             !
             Oh
             cursed
             ,
             cursed
             Wretch
             !
          
           
             What
             have
             I
             done
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             Help
             ,
             chafe
             her
             Temples
             ,
             Iras.
             
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Bend
             ,
             bend
             her
             forward
             quickly
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             Heav'n
             be
             prais'd
             ,
          
           
             She
             comes
             again
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             let
             him
             not
             approach
             me
             .
          
           
             Why
             have
             you
             brought
             me
             back
             to
             this
             loath'd
             Being
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             abode
             of
             Falshood
             ,
             violated
             Vows
             ,
          
           
             And
             injur'd
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             kneeling
             .
          
           
             Believe
             me
             ,
             't
             is
             against
             my self
             I
             speak
             ,
          
           
             That
             sure
             deserves
             Belief
             ;
             I
             inju●…'d
             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
             Farewels
             ;
          
           
             How
             almost
             vanquisht
             by
             his
             Love
             he
             parted
             ,
          
           
             And
             lean'd
             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
             forg'd
             that
             Lye
             ;
             for
             whose
             forgiveness
             kneels
          
           
             This
             self-accus'd
             ,
             self-punish'd
             Criminal
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop
             
          
           
             With
             how
             much
             ease
             believe
             we
             what
             we
             wish
             !
          
           
             Rise
             ,
             D●…llabella
             ;
             if
             you
             have
             been
             Guilty
             ,
          
           
             I
             have
             contributed
             ,
             and
             too
             much
             Love
          
           
             Has
             made
             me
             Guilty
             too
             .
          
           
             Th'
             advance
             of
             kindness
             which
             I
             made
             ,
             was
             feign'd
             ,
          
           
             To
             call
             back
             fleeting
             Love
             by
             Jealousie
             ;
          
           
             But
             't
             would
             not
             last
             .
             Oh
             ,
             rather
             let
             me
             lose
          
           
             Than
             so
             ignobly
             trifle
             with
             his
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             find
             your
             Breast
             fenc'd
             round
             from
             humane
             reach
             ,
          
           
             Transparent
             as
             a
             Rock
             of
             solid
             Chrystal
             ;
          
           
             Seen
             through
             ,
             but
             never
             pierc'd
             .
             My
             Friend
             ,
             my
             Friend
             !
          
           
             What
             endless
             Treasure
             hast
             thou
             thrown
             away
             ,
          
           
             And
             scatter'd
             ,
             like
             an
             Infant
             ,
             in
             the
             Ocean
             ,
          
           
             Vain
             sums
             of
             Wealth
             which
             none
             can
             gather
             thence
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Could
             you
             not
             beg
          
           
             An
             hours
             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
             famish'd
             Eyes
          
           
             B
             for●…
             we
             part
             ;
             for
             I
             have
             far
             to
             go
             ,
          
           
             If
             Death
             be
             far
             ,
             and
             never
             must
             return
             .
          
           
             Ventidius
             ,
             with
             Octavia
             ,
             behind
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             From
             hence
             you
             may
             discover
             —
             Oh
             ,
             sweet
             ,
             sweet
             !
          
           
             Would
             you
             indeed
             ?
             the
             pretty
             hand
             in
             Earnest
             ?
          
           
             [
             Takes
             her
             hand
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             will
             ,
             for
             this
             Reward
             .
             —
             Draw
             it
             not
             back
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             all
             I
             e'er
             will
             beg
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             They
             turn
             upon
             us
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             What
             quick
             Eyes
             has
             Guilt
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Seem
             not
             to
             have
             observ'd
             'em
             ,
             and
             go
             on
             .
          
           
             They
             Enter
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Saw
             you
             the
             Emperor
             ,
             
               Ventidius
               ?
               Ven.
            
             No.
          
           
             I
             sought
             him
             ;
             but
             I
             heard
             that
             he
             was
             private
             ,
          
           
             None
             with
             him
             ,
             but
             Hipparchus
             his
             Freedman
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Know
             you
             his
             bus'ness
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Giving
             him
             Instructions
             ,
          
           
             And
             Letters
             ,
             to
             his
             Brother
             C●…r
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Well
             ,
          
           
             He
             must
             be
             found
             .
          
           
             Exeunt
             Dol.
             and
             Cleop.
             
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Most
             glorious
             impudence
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             She
             look'd
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven
             
          
           
             I
             pity
             Dollabella
             ;
             but
             she
             's
             dangerous
             :
          
           
             Her
             Eyes
             have
             pow'r
             beyond
             Thessalian
             Charms
          
           
             To
             draw
             the
             Moon
             from
             Heav'n
             ;
             for
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sea-green
             Syrens
             taught
             her
             Voice
             their
             flatt'ry
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             while
             she
             speaks
             ,
             Night
             steals
             upon
             the
             Day
             ,
          
           
             Unmark'd
             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
             heav'd
             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
             .
             Anthony
          
           
             Must
             needs
             have
             some
             remains
             of
             Passion
             still
             ,
          
           
             Which
             may
             ferment
             into
             a
             worse
             Relapse
             ,
          
           
             If
             now
             no●…
             fully
             cur'd
             .
             I
             know
             ,
             this
             minute
             ,
          
           
             With
             C●…sar
             he
             's
             endeavouring
             her
             Peace
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav
             
          
           
             You
             have
             prevail'd
             :
             —
             but
             for
             a
             farther
             purpose
             
               Walks
               off
            
             .
          
           
             I
             'll
             prove
             how
             he
             will
             relish
             this
             Discovery
             .
          
           
             What
             ,
             make
             a
             S●…rumpet's
             peace
             :
             it
             swells
             my
             Heart
             :
          
           
             It
             must
             not
             ,
             ●…na
             '
             not
             be
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             giv'n
          
           
             My
             last
             Instructions
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Mine
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             are
             written
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Ventidius
             !
          
           
             [
             Drawirg
             〈◊〉
             ●…de
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             My
             Lord
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             A
             word
             in
             private
             .
          
           
             When
             saw
             you
             Dollabella
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Now
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             He
             parted
             hence
             ;
             and
             Cleopatra
             with
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Speak
             softly
             .
             'T
             was
             by
             my
             Command
             he
             went
             ,
          
           
             To
             bear
             my
             last
             farewel
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aloud
             .
          
           
             It
             look'd
             indeed
          
           
             Like
             your
             farewel
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             More
             softly
             .
             —
             My
             farewel
             ?
          
           
           
             What
             secret
             meaning
             have
             you
             in
             those
             words
          
           
             Of
             my
             Farewel
             ?
             He
             did
             it
             by
             my
             Order
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aloud
             .
          
           
             Then
             he
             obey'd
             your
             Order
             .
             I
             suppose
          
           
             You
             bid
             him
             do
             it
             with
             all
             Gentleness
             ,
          
           
             All
             kindness
             ,
             and
             all
             —
             love
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             How
             she
             mourn'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             poor
             forsaken
             Creature
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             She
             took
             it
             as
             she
             ought
             ;
             she
             bore
             your
             parting
          
           
             As
             she
             did
             
             Caesar's
             ,
             as
             she
             would
             anothers
             ,
          
           
             Were
             a
             new
             Love
             to
             come
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             aloud
             .
          
           
             Thou
             dost
             belye
             her
             ;
          
           
             Most
             basely
             ,
             and
             maliciously
             belye
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             thought
             not
             to
             displease
             you
             ;
             I
             have
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             coming
             up
             .
          
           
             You
             seem
             disturb'd
             ,
             my
             Lord.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             A
             very
             trifle
             .
          
           
             Retire
             ,
             my
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             It
             was
             indeed
             a
             trifle
             .
          
           
             He
             sent
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             angrily
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             .
             Look
             how
             thou
             disobey'st
             me
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Life
             shall
             answer
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Then
             't
             is
             no
             trifle
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             to
             Octav.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             less
             ;
             a
             very
             nothing
             :
             you
             too
             saw
             it
             ,
          
           
             As
             well
             as
             I
             ,
             and
             therefore
             't
             is
             no
             Secret.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             She
             saw
             it
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Yes
             :
             she
             saw
             young
             Dollabella
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Young
             Dollabella
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Young
             ,
             I
             think
             him
             young
             ,
          
           
             And
             handsom
             too
             ;
             and
             so
             do
             others
             think
             him
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             of
             that
             ?
             He
             went
             by
             your
             Command
             ,
          
           
             Indeed
             't
             is
             probable
             ,
             with
             some
             kind
             Message
             ;
          
           
             For
             she
             receiv'd
             it
             graciously
             ;
             she
             smil'd
             :
          
           
             And
             then
             he
             grew
             familiar
             with
             her
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             Squeez'd
             it
             ,
             and
             worry'd
             it
             with
             ravenous
             Kisses
             ;
          
           
             She
             blush'd
             ,
             and
             sigh'd
             ,
             and
             smil'd
             ,
             and
             blush'd
             again
             ;
          
           
             At
             last
             she
             took
             occasion
             to
             Talk
             softly
             ,
          
           
             And
             brought
             her
             Cheek
             up
             close
             ,
             and
             lean'd
             on
             his
             :
          
           
             At
             which
             ,
             he
             whisper'd
             Kisses
             back
             on
             hers
             ;
          
           
             And
             then
             she
             cry'd
             aloud
             ,
             That
             Constancy
          
           
             Should
             be
             rewarded
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             This
             I
             saw
             and
             heard
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             What
             Womam
             was
             it
             ,
             whom
             you
             heard
             and
             saw
          
           
             So
             playful
             with
             my
             Friend
             !
          
           
             Not
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Ev'n
             she
             ,
             my
             Lord
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             My
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Your
             Cleopatra
             ;
          
           
             
             Dollabella's
             Cleopatra
             ?
          
           
             Every
             Man's
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Tou
             ●…t
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             do
             not
             lye
             ,
             my
             Lord.
          
           
             Is
             this
             so
             strange
             ?
             should
             Mistresses
             be
             left
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             provide
             against
             a
             time
             of
             Change
             ?
          
           
             You
             know
             she
             's
             not
             much
             us'd
             to
             lonely
             Nights
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             think
             no
             more
             on
             't
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             't
             is
             false
             ,
             and
             see
             the
             Plot
             betwixt
             you
             .
          
           
             You
             needed
             not
             have
             gone
             this
             way
             ,
             Octavia
             .
          
           
             What
             harms
             it
             you
             that
             
             Cleopatra's
             just
             ?
          
           
             She
             's
             mine
             no
             more
             .
             I
             see
             ;
             and
             I
             forgive
             :
          
           
             Urge
             it
             no
             farther
             ,
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             Are
             you
             concern'd
          
           
             That
             she
             's
             found
             false
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             should
             be
             ,
             were
             it
             so
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             tho
             't
             is
             past
             ,
             I
             would
             not
             that
             the
             World
          
           
             Should
             Tax
             my
             former
             Choice
             :
             That
             I
             lov'd
             one
          
           
             Of
             so
             light
             Note
             ;
             but
             I
             forgive
             you
             both
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             What
             has
             my
             Age
             deserv'd
             ,
             that
             you
             should
             think
          
           
             I
             would
             abuse
             your
             Ears
             with
             Perjury
             ?
          
           
             If
             Heav'n
             be
             true
             ,
             she
             's
             false
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Tho
             Heav'n
             and
             '
             Earth
          
           
             Should
             witness
             it
             ,
             I
             'll
             not
             believe
             her
             tainted
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             bring
             you
             then
             a
             Witness
          
           
             From
             Hell
             to
             prove
             her
             so
             .
             Nay
             ,
             go
             not
             back
             ;
          
           
             [
             Seeing
             Alexas
             just
             entring
             ,
             and
             starting
             back
             .
          
           
             For
             stay
             you
             must
             and
             shall
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             What
             means
             my
             Lord
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             To
             make
             you
             do
             what
             most
             you
             hate
             ;
             speak
             truth
             .
          
           
             You
             are
             of
             
             Cleopatra's
             private
             Counsel
             ,
          
           
             Of
             her
             Bed-Counsel
             ,
             her
             lascivious
             hours
             ;
          
           
             Are
             conscious
             of
             each
             Nightly
             change
             she
             makes
             ,
          
           
             And
             watch
             her
             ,
             as
             Chaldeans
             do
             the
             Moon
             ,
          
           
             Can
             tell
             what
             Signs
             she
             passes
             through
             ,
             what
             day
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             My
             Noble
             Lord.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             My
             most
             Illustrious
             Pandar
             ,
          
           
             No
             fine
             set
             Speech
             ,
             no
             Cadence
             ,
             to
             turn'd
             Periods
             ,
          
           
             But
             a
             pla●…
             home-spun
             Truth
             ,
             is
             what
             I
             ask
             :
          
           
             I
             did
             ,
             my self
             ,
             o'er
             hear
             your
             Queen
             make
             love
          
           
             To
             Dollabella
             .
             Speak
             ;
             for
             I
             will
             know
             ,
          
           
             By
             your
             Confession
             ,
             what
             more
             past
             betwixt
             'em
             ;
          
           
             How
             near
             the
             bus'ness
             draws
             to
             your
             Employment
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             the
             happy
             hour
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Speak
             truth
             ,
             Alexas
             ,
             whether
             it
             offend
          
           
             Or
             please
             Ventidius
             ,
             care
             not
             :
             justifie
          
           
             Thy
             injur'd
             Queen
             from
             Malice
             :
             dare
             his
             worst
             .
          
        
         
           
             Oct.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             he
             gives
             him
             Courage
             !
             how
             he
             fears
          
           
             To
             find
             her
             false
             !
             and
             shuts
             his
             Eyes
             to
             truth
             ,
          
           
             Willing
             to
             be
             mi●…ed
             !
          
        
         
           
             
             Alex.
             
          
           
             As
             far
             as
             love
             may
             plead
             for
             Woman's
             frailty
             ,
          
           
             U
             g'd
             by
             desert
             and
             greatness
             of
             the
             Lover
             ;
          
           
             So
             far
             (
             Divine
             
               Octavia
               !
            
             )
             may
             my
             Queen
          
           
             Stand
             ev●…
             excus'd
             to
             yo●…
             ,
             for
             loving
             him
             ,
          
           
             Who
             is
             your
             Lord
             :
             so
             far
             ,
             from
             brave
             Venttdius
             ,
          
           
             May
             her
             past
             Actions
             hope
             a
             fair
             Report
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             T
             is
             well
             ,
             and
             truly
             spoken
             :
             mark
             ,
             Ventidius
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             To
             you
             ,
             most
             Noble
             Emperor
             ,
             her
             strong
             Passion
          
           
             Stands
             not
             excus'd
             ,
             but
             wholly
             justifi'd
             .
          
           
             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
             Scepters
             of
             the
             Earth
             ,
             expos'd
             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
             l●…ss
             than
             Wife
             to
             you
             ,
             disdain'd
          
           
             Their
             lawful
             Passion
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             but
             Truth
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             And
             yet
             ,
             tho'
             Love
             ,
             and
             your
             unmatch'd
             Desert
             ,
          
           
             Have
             drawn
             her
             from
             the
             due
             regard
             of
             Honor
             ,
          
           
             At
             last
             ,
             Heav'n
             open'd
             her
             unwilling
             Eyes
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             wrongs
             she
             offer'd
             fair
             Octavia
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             holy
             Bed
             she
             lawfully
             usurpt
             ,
          
           
             The
             sad
             Effects
             of
             this
             improsperous
             War
             ,
          
           
             Confirm'd
             those
             pious
             Thoughts
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             O
             ,
             wheel
             you
             there
             ?
          
           
             Observe
             him
             now
             ;
             the
             Man
             begins
             to
             mend
             ,
          
           
             And
             Talk
             substantial
             Reason
             .
             Fear
             not
             ,
             Eunuch
             ,
          
           
             The
             Emperor
             has
             giv'n
             thee
             leave
             to
             speak
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Else
             had
             I
             never
             dar'd
             t'
             offend
             his
             Ears
          
           
             With
             what
             the
             last
             necessity
             has
             urg'd
          
           
             On
             my
             forsaken
             Mistress
             ;
             yet
             I
             must
             not
          
           
             Presume
             to
             say
             her
             Heart
             is
             wholly
             alter'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             ,
             dare
             not
             for
             thy
             Life
             ,
             I
             Charge
             thee
             dare
             not
             ,
          
           
             Pronounce
             that
             fatal
             word
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             aside
             .
          
           
             Must
             I
             bear
             this
             ?
             good
             Heav'n
             ,
             afford
             me
             patience
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             On
             ,
             sweet
             Eunuch
             ;
             my
             dear
             half
             Man
             ,
             proceed
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Yet
             Dollabella
          
           
             Has
             lov'd
             her
             long
             ,
             he
             ,
             next
             my
             God-like
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             Deserves
             her
             best
             ;
             and
             should
             she
             meet
             his
             Passion
             ,
          
           
             Rejected
             ,
             as
             she
             is
             ,
             by
             him
             she
             lov'd
             —
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Hence
             ,
             from
             my
             sight
             ;
             for
             I
             can
             bear
             no
             more
             :
          
           
             Let
             Furies
             drag
             thee
             quick
             to
             Hell
             ;
             each
             torturing
             hand
          
           
             Do
             thou
             employ
             ,
             till
             Cleopatra
             comes
             ,
          
           
             Then
             joyn
             thou
             too
             ,
             and
             help
             to
             torture
             her
             .
          
           
             Exit
             Alexas
             ,
             thrust
             out
             by
             Antony
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Octav.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             not
             well
             ,
          
           
             Indeed
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ,
             't
             is
             much
             unkind
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             To
             show
             this
             Passion
             ,
             this
             extreme
             Concernment
          
           
             For
             an
             abandon'd
             ,
             faithless
             Prostitute
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Octavia
             ,
             leave
             me
             :
             I
             am
             much
             disorder'd
             .
          
           
             Leave
             me
             ,
             I
             say
             .
          
        
         
           
             Octav.
             
          
           
             My
             Lord
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             bid
             you
             leave
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             Falshood
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             too
             much
             ,
          
           
             Too
             much
             ,
             Octavia
             ;
             I
             am
             prest
             with
             Sorrows
          
           
             Too
             heavy
             to
             be
             born
             ;
             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
             betray'd
             you
             ;
          
           
             You
             did
             but
             half
             return
             to
             me
             :
             your
             kindness
          
           
             Linger'd
             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
             turn'd
             a
             Dollabella
             too
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             this
             Fury
             loose
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             be
             advis'd
             ,
          
           
             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
             urg'd
             with
             long
             unkindness
             ,
             and
             disdain
             ;
          
           
             Take
             her
             again
             whom
             you
             perfer
             to
             me
             ;
          
           
             She
             stays
             but
             to
             be
             call'd
             .
             Poor
             cozen'd
             Man
             !
          
           
             Let
             a
             feign'd
             parting
             give
             her
             back
             your
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Which
             a
             feign'd
             Love
             first
             got
             ;
             for
             injur'd
             me
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             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
             transferr'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             they
             shall
             Cheer
             ,
             by
             Turns
             ,
             my
             Widow'd
             Nights
             :
          
           
           
             So
             ,
             take
             my
             last
             farewel
             ;
             for
             I
             despair
          
           
             To
             have
             you
             whole
             ,
             and
             scorn
             to
             take
             you
             half
             .
          
           
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             combat
             Heav'n
             ,
             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
             fram'd
             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
             forc'd
             a
             Smile
             at
             
             Cleopatra's
             falshood
             :
          
           
             Octavia
             had
             believ'd
             it
             ,
             and
             had
             staid
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             am
             made
             a
             shallow-forded
             Stream
             ,
          
           
             Seen
             to
             the
             Bottom
             :
             all
             my
             clearness
             scorn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             my
             Faults
             expos'd
             !
             —
             See
             ,
             where
             he
             comes
          
           
             Enter
             Dollabella
             .
          
           
             Who
             has
             prophan'd
             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
             Heav'n
             mis-match'd
             it
             ,
          
           
             And
             furnish'd
             Treason
             out
             with
             Natures
             Pomp
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             its
             work
             more
             easie
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             O
             ,
             my
             Friend
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Well
             ,
             Dollabella
             ,
             you
             perform'd
             my
             Message
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             did
             ,
             unwillingly
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Unwillingly
             ?
          
           
             Was
             it
             so
             hard
             for
             you
             to
             bear
             our
             parting
             ?
          
           
             You
             should
             have
             wisht
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Why
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Because
             you
             love
             me
             .
          
           
             And
             she
             receiv'd
             my
             Message
             ,
             with
             as
             true
             ,
          
           
             With
             as
             unfeign'd
             a
             Sorrow
             ,
             as
             you
             brought
             it
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             She
             loves
             you
             ,
             ev'n
             to
             madness
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             I
             know
             it
             .
          
           
             You
             ,
             Dollabella
             ,
             do
             not
             better
             know
          
           
             How
             much
             she
             loves
             me
             .
             And
             should
             I
          
           
             Forsake
             this
             Beauty
             ?
             This
             all-perfect
             Creature
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             I
             could
             not
             ,
             were
             she
             mine
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             And
             yet
             you
             first
          
           
             Perswaded
             me
             :
             how
             come
             you
             alter'd
             since
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             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
             promis'd
          
           
             That
             she
             should
             take
             her
             last
             farewel
             :
             and
             ,
             see
             ,
          
           
             She
             comes
             to
             claim
             my
             word
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Enter
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             False
             Dollabella
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             What
             's
             false
             ,
             my
             Lord
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Why
             ,
             
             Dollabella's
             false
             ;
          
           
             And
             
             Cleopatra's
             false
             ;
             both
             false
             and
             faithless
             .
          
           
             Draw
             near
             ,
             you
             well-joyn'd
             wickedness
             ,
             you
             Serpents
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             I
             have
             ,
             in
             my
             kindly
             Bosom
             ,
             warm
          
           
             Till
             I
             am
             stung
             to
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
             have
             I
          
           
             Deserv'd
             to
             be
             thus
             us'd
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Can
             Heav'n
             prepare
          
           
             A
             newer
             Torment
             ?
             Can
             it
             find
             a
             Curse
          
           
             Beyond
             our
             Separation
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             if
             Fate
          
           
             Be
             just
             ,
             much
             greater
             :
             Heav'n
             should
             be
             ingenious
          
           
             In
             punishing
             such
             Crimes
             .
             The
             rowling
             Stone
             ,
          
           
             And
             gnawing
             Vulture
             ,
             we
             slight
             Pains
             ,
             invented
          
           
             When
             Jove
             was
             young
             ,
             and
             no
             Examples
             known
          
           
             Of
             mighty
             Ills
             ;
             but
             you
             have
             ripen'd
             sin
          
           
             To
             such
             a
             monstrous
             growth
             ,
             't
             will
             pose
             the
             Gods
          
           
             To
             find
             an
             equal
             Torture
             .
             Two
             ,
             two
             such
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             there
             's
             no
             farther
             Name
             ,
             two
             such
             —
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             To
             me
             ,
             who
             lock'd
             my
             Soul
             within
             your
             Breasts
             ,
          
           
             Had
             no
             Desires
             ,
             no
             Joys
             ,
             no
             Life
             ,
             but
             you
             ;
          
           
             When
             half
             the
             Globe
             was
             mine
             ,
             I
             gave
             it
             you
          
           
             In
             Dowry
             with
             my
             Heart
             ;
             I
             had
             no
             use
             ,
          
           
             No
             fruit
             of
             all
             ,
             but
             you
             :
             a
             Friend
             and
             Mistress
          
           
             Was
             what
             the
             World
             could
             give
             .
             Oh
             ,
             Cleopatra
             !
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             Dollabella
             !
             how
             could
             you
             betray
          
           
             This
             tender
             Hea●…t
             ,
             which
             with
             an
             Infant-fondness
             .
          
           
             Lay
             lull'd
             betwixt
             your
             Bosoms
             ,
             and
             there
             slept
          
           
             Secure
             of
             injur'd
             Faith
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             If
             she
             has
             wrong'd
             you
             ,
          
           
             Heav'n
             ,
             Hell
             ,
             and
             You
             revenge
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             If
             she
             wrong'd
             me
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             wouldst
             evade
             thy
             part
             of
             Guilt
             ;
             but
             swear
          
           
             Thou
             lov'st
             not
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Not
             so
             as
             I
             love
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Not
             so
             !
             Swear
             ,
             swear
             ,
             I
             say
             ;
             thou
             dost
             not
             love
             her
             ;
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             than
             Friendship
             will
             allow
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             more
             ?
          
           
             Friendship
             allows
             thee
             nothing
             :
             thou
             art
             perjur'd
             .
             —
          
           
             And
             yet
             thou
             didst
             not
             swear
             thou
             lov'dst
             her
             not
             ;
          
           
             But
             〈◊〉
             so
             much
             ,
             no
             more
             .
             Oh
             trifling
             Hypocrite
             ,
          
           
             Who
             dar'st
             not
             own
             to
             her
             thou
             dost
             not
             love
             ,
          
           
             Not
             own
             to
             me
             thou
             dost
             !
             Ventidius
             heard
             it
             ;
          
           
             Octavia
             saw
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             They
             are
             Enemies
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant
             
          
           
             Alexas
             Is
             not
             so
             :
             he
             ,
             he
             confest
             it
             .
          
           
             He
             ,
             who
             ,
             next
             Hell
             ,
             best
             knew
             it
             ,
             he
             avow'd
             it
             .
          
           
             (
             To
             Dol.
             )
          
           
             Why
             do
             I
             seek
             a
             Proof
             beyond
             your self
             ?
          
           
             You
             whom
             I
             sent
             to
             bear
             my
             last
             Farewel
             ,
          
           
             Return'd
             to
             plead
             her
             stay
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             What
             shall
             I
             Answer
             ?
          
           
             If
             to
             have
             lov'd
             be
             guilt
             ,
             then
             I
             have
             sinn'd
             ;
          
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop
             
          
           
             Ah
             ,
             what
             will
             not
             a
             Woman
             do
             who
             loves
             !
          
           
             What
             means
             will
             she
             refuse
             ,
             to
             keep
             that
             Heart
          
           
             Where
             all
             her
             joys
             are
             plac'd
             !
             'T
             was
             I
             encourag'd
             ,
          
           
             T
             was
             I
             blew
             up
             the
             Fire
             that
             scorch'd
             his
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             you
             jealous
             ;
             and
             by
             that
             regain
             you
             .
          
           
             But
             all
             in
             vain
             ;
             I
             could
             not
             Counterfeit
             :
          
           
             In
             spight
             of
             all
             the
             Damms
             ,
             my
             Love
             broke
             o'er
             ,
          
           
             And
             drown'd
             my
             Heart
             again
             :
             Fate
             took
             th'
             occasion
             ;
          
           
             And
             thus
             one
             minutes
             feigning
             has
             destroy'd
          
           
             My
             whole
             Life's
             truth
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thin
             Cobweb
             Arts
             of
             Falshood
             ;
          
           
             Se●…n
             ,
             and
             broke
             through
             at
             first
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Forgive
             your
             Mistress
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Forgive
             you
             Friend
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             You
             have
             convinc'd
             your selves
             ,
          
           
             You
             plead
             each
             others
             Cause
             :
             What
             Witness
             have
             you
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             but
             meant
             to
             raise
             my
             Jealousie
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Our selves
             ,
             and
             Heav'n
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Guilt
             witnesses
             for
             Guilt
             .
             Hence
             ,
             Love
             and
             Friendship
             ;
          
           
             You
             have
             no
             longer
             place
             in
             human
             Breasts
             ,
          
           
             These
             two
             have
             driv'n
             you
             out
             :
             avoid
             my
             sight
             ;
          
           
             I
             would
             not
             kill
             the
             Man
             whom
             I
             lov'd
             ;
          
           
             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
             wrong'd
             ,
             my
             Justice
             and
             Revenge
          
           
             Will
             cry
             so
             loud
             within
             me
             ,
             that
             my
             Pity
          
           
             Will
             not
             be
             heard
             for
             either
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             Heav'n
             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
             resign'd
          
           
             Is
             stabb'd
             by
             its
             own
             Guards
             :
             I
             'll
             hear
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             Hence
             from
             my
             sight
             for
             ever
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             How
             ?
             for
             ever
             ,
          
           
             I
             cannot
             go
             one
             moment
             from
             your
             sight
             ,
          
           
             And
             must
             I
             go
             for
             ever
             ?
          
           
             My
             Joys
             ,
             my
             only
             Joys
             are
             center'd
             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
             ,
             banish'd
             Woman
             ,
          
           
             Banish'd
             for
             love
             of
             you
             ;
             banish'd
             from
             you
             ?
          
           
             I
             ,
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             For
             pity
             hear
             me
             !
          
           
             Wou'd
             you
             cast
             off
             a
             Slave
             who
             follow'd
             you
             ,
          
           
             Who
             crouch'd
             beneath
             your
             Spurn
             ?
             —
             He
             has
             no
             pity
             !
          
           
             See
             ,
             if
             he
             gives
             one
             tear
             to
             my
             Departure
             ;
          
           
             One
             look
             ,
             one
             kind
             farewel
             :
             Oh
             Iron
             heart
             !
          
           
             Let
             all
             the
             Gods
             look
             down
             ,
             and
             judge
             betwixt
             us
             ,
          
           
             If
             he
             did
             ever
             love
             !
          
        
         
           
             Anth.
             
          
           
             No
             more
             :
             Alexas
             !
          
        
         
           
             Dolla
             .
          
           
             A
             perjur'd
             Villain
             !
          
        
         
           
             Anth.
             to
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Your
             Alexas
             ;
             yours
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             O
             't
             was
             his
             Plot
             :
             his
             ruinous
             Design
          
           
             ●…'ingage
             you
             in
             my
             love
             by
             jealousie
             .
          
           
             Hear
             him
             ;
             confront
             him
             with
             me
             ;
             let
             him
             speak
             .
          
        
         
           
             Anth.
             
          
           
             I
             have
             ;
             I
             have
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             mov'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Then
             must
             we
             part
             ?
             Farewel
             ,
             my
             cruel
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             appearance
             is
             against
             me
             ;
             and
             I
             go
          
           
             Unjustifi'd
             ,
             for
             ever
             from
             your
             sight
             .
          
           
             How
             I
             have
             lov'd
             ,
             you
             know
             ;
             how
             yet
             I
             love
             ,
          
           
             My
             only
             Comfort
             is
             ,
             I
             know
             my self
             :
          
           
             I
             love
             you
             more
             ,
             ev'n
             now
             you
             are
             unkind
             ,
          
           
             Than
             when
             you
             lov'd
             me
             most
             ;
             so
             well
             ,
             so
             truly
             ,
          
           
           
             I
             'll
             never
             strive
             against
             it
             ;
             but
             die
             pleas'd
          
           
             To
             think
             you
             once
             were
             mine
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Good
             Heav'n
             ,
             they
             weep
             at
             parting
             .
          
           
             Must
             I
             weep
             too
             ?
             that
             calls
             'em
             innocent
             .
          
           
             I
             must
             not
             weep
             ;
             and
             yet
             I
             must
             ,
             to
             think
          
           
             That
             I
             must
             not
             forgive
             —
          
           
             Live
             ;
             but
             live
             wretched
             ,
             't
             is
             but
             just
             you
             shou'd
             ,
          
           
             Who
             made
             me
             so
             :
             Live
             from
             each
             others
             sight
             :
          
           
             Let
             me
             not
             hear
             you
             meet
             :
             Set
             all
             the
             Earth
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Seas
             ,
             betwixt
             your
             sunder'd
             Loves
             :
          
           
             View
             nothing
             common
             but
             the
             Sun
             and
             Skys
             :
          
           
             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.
           
        
         
           Cleopatra
           ,
           Charmion
           ,
           Iras.
           
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             BE
             juster
             ,
             Heav'n
             :
             such
             Virtue
             punish'd
             thus
             ,
          
           
             Will
             make
             us
             think
             that
             Chance
             rules
             all
             above
             ,
          
           
             And
             shuffles
             ,
             with
             a
             Random
             hand
             ,
             the
             Lots
          
           
             Which
             Man
             is
             forc'd
             to
             draw
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             cou'd
             tear
             out
             these
             Eyes
             ,
             that
             gain'd
             his
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             And
             had
             not
             pow'r
             to
             keep
             it
             .
             O
             the
             Curse
          
           
             Of
             doting
             on
             ,
             ev'n
             when
             I
             find
             it
             Dotage
             !
          
           
             Bear
             witness
             ,
             Gods
             ,
             you
             heard
             him
             bid
             me
             go
             ;
          
           
             You
             whom
             he
             mock'd
             with
             imprecating
             Vows
          
           
             Of
             promis'd
             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
             choak
             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
             sorce
             its
             Passage
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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-tim'd
             truth
             .
          
           
             Was
             it
             for
             me
             to
             prop
          
           
             The
             Ruins
             of
             a
             falling
             Majesty
             ?
          
           
             To
             place
             my self
             beneath
             the
             mighty
             flaw
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             to
             be
             crush'd
             ,
             and
             pounded
             into
             Atoms
             ,
          
           
             By
             its
             o'erwhelming
             weight
             ?
             'T
             is
             too
             presuming
          
           
             For
             Subjects
             ,
             to
             preserve
             that
             wilful
             pow'r
          
           
             Which
             Courts
             its
             own
             Destruction
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             wou'd
             reason
          
           
             More
             calmly
             with
             you
             .
             Did
             not
             you
             o'er-rule
             ,
          
           
             And
             force
             my
             plain
             ,
             direct
             ,
             and
             open
             Love
          
           
             Into
             these
             crooked
             paths
             of
             Jealousie
             ?
          
           
             Now
             ,
             what
             's
             th'
             event
             ?
             Octavia
             is
             remov'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             
             Cleopatra's
             banish'd
             .
             Thou
             ,
             thou
             ,
             Villain
             ,
          
           
             Has
             push'd
             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
             ruin'd
             :
          
           
             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
             Cu●…e
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Suppose
             from
             Shipwrack'd
             Seaman
             near
             the
             shore
             ,
          
           
             Dropping
             and
             faint
             ,
             wi●…h
             climbing
             up
             the
             Cliff
             ,
          
           
             If
             ,
             from
             above
             ,
             some
             Charitable
             hand
          
           
             Pull
             him
             to
             safety
             ,
             hazarding
             himself
          
           
             To
             draw
             the
             others
             weight
             ;
             wou'd
             he
             look
             back
          
           
             And
             Curse
             him
             for
             his
             Pains
             ?
             The
             Case
             is
             yours
             ;
          
           
             But
             one
             step
             more
             ,
             and
             you
             have
             gain'd
             the
             heighth
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Sunk
             ,
             never
             more
             to
             rise
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             
             Octavia's
             gone
             ,
             and
             Dollabella
             banish'd
             .
          
           
             Believe
             me
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             Antony
             is
             yours
             .
          
           
             His
             Heart
             was
             never
             lost
             ;
             but
             started
             off
          
           
             To
             Jealousie
             ,
             Love's
             last
             retreat
             and
             covert
             :
          
           
             Where
             it
             lies
             h●…d
             in
             Shades
             ,
             watchful
             in
             silence
             ,
          
           
             And
             list'ning
             for
             the
             Sound
             that
             calls
             it
             back
             ,
          
           
             Some
             other
             ,
             any
             Man
             ,
             (
             't
             is
             so
             advanc'd
             )
          
           
             May
             perfect
             this
             unfinish'd
             work
             ,
             which
             I
          
           
             (
             Unhappy
             only
             to
             my self
             )
             have
             lest
          
           
             So
             easie
             to
             his
             hand
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Look
             well
             thou
             do
             't
             ;
             else
             —
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Else
             ,
             what
             your
             silence
             threatens
             —
             Antony
          
           
             Is
             mounted
             up
             the
             Pharos
             ;
             from
             whose
             Turret
             ,
          
           
             He
             stands
             surveying
             our
             Egyptian
             Gallies
             ,
          
           
             Engag'd
             with
             
             Caesar's
             Fleet
             :
             now
             Death
             ,
             or
             Conquest
             .
          
           
             If
             the
             first
             happen
             ,
             Fate
             acquits
             my
             Promise
             :
          
           
             If
             we
             o'ercome
             ,
             the
             Conqueror
             is
             yours
             .
          
           
             A
             distant
             shout
             within
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             Have
             comfort
             ,
             Madam
             :
             did
             you
             mark
             that
             Shout
             ?
          
           
           
           
           
           
             
             Second
             Shout
             nearer
             .
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Hark
             ;
             they
             redouble
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             from
             the
             Port.
          
           
             The
             loudness
             shows
             it
             near
             :
             good
             News
             ,
             kind
             Heavens
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Osiris
             make
             it
             so
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Serapion
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Where
             ,
             where
             's
             the
             Queen
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             How
             frightfully
             the
             holy
             Coward
             stares
             !
          
           
             As
             if
             not
             yet
             recover'd
             of
             th'
             Assault
             ,
          
           
             When
             all
             his
             Gods
             ,
             and
             what
             's
             more
             dear
             to
             him
             ,
          
           
             His
             Offerings
             were
             at
             stake
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             O
             horror
             ,
             horror
             !
          
           
             Egypt
             has
             been
             ;
             our
             latest
             hour
             is
             come
             :
          
           
             The
             Queen
             of
             Nations
             from
             her
             ancient
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             Is
             Sunk
             for
             ever
             in
             the
             dark
             Abyss
             :
          
           
             Time
             has
             unrowl'd
             her
             Glories
             to
             the
             last
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             clos'd
             up
             the
             Volume
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Be
             more
             plain
             :
          
           
             Say
             ,
             whence
             thon
             com'st
             ,
             (
             though
             Fate
             is
             in
             thy
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Which
             from
             thy
             haggard
             Eyes
             looks
             wildly
             out
             ,
          
           
             And
             threatens
             ere
             thou
             speak'st
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             I
             came
             from
             Pharos
             ;
          
           
             From
             viewing
             (
             spare
             me
             and
             imagine
             it
             )
          
           
             Our
             Lands
             last
             hope
             ,
             your
             Navy
             .
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Vanquish'd
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             No.
          
           
             They
             fought
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Then
             they
             fled
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             Nor
             that
             .
             I
             saw
             ,
          
           
             With
             Antony
             ,
             your
             well
             appointed
             Fleet
          
           
             Row
             out
             ;
             and
             thrice
             he
             wav'd
             his
             hand
             on
             high
             ,
          
           
             And
             thrice
             with
             cheerful
             Crys
             they
             shouted
             back
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             then
             ,
             false
             Fortune
             ,
             like
             a
             fawning
             Strumpet
             ,
          
           
             ●…out
             to
             leave
             the
             Bankrupt
             Prodigal
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             dissembling
             Smile
             would
             kiss
             at
             parting
             ,
          
           
             And
             flatter
             to
             the
             last
             ;
             the
             well-tim'd
             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
             Egpptian
             Gallies
          
           
             (
             Receiv'd
             like
             Friends
             )
             past
             through
             ,
             and
             fell
             behind
          
           
             The
             Roman
             rear
             :
             and
             now
             ,
             they
             all
             come
             forward
             ,
          
           
             And
             ride
             within
             the
             Po●…t
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Enough
             ,
             Serapion
             :
          
           
             I
             've
             heard
             my
             doom
             .
             This
             needed
             not
             ,
             you
             Gods
             :
          
           
             When
             I
             lost
             Antony
             ,
             your
             work
             was
             done
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             but
             〈◊〉
             malice
             .
             Where
             's
             my
             Lord
             ?
          
           
             How
             bears
             he
             this
             last
             ●…low
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
             Serap
             .
          
           
             His
             fury
             cannot
             be
             express'd
             by
             words
             :
          
           
             Thrice
             he
             Attempted
             headlong
             to
             have
             faln
          
           
             Full
             on
             his
             Foes
             ,
             and
             aim'd
             at
             
             Caesar's
             Galley
             :
          
           
             With-held
             ,
             he
             raves
             on
             you
             ;
             Crys
             ,
             He
             's
             betray'd
          
           
             Should
             he
             now
             find
             you
             .
             —
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Shun
             him
             ,
             '
             seek
             your
             safety
             ,
          
           
             Till
             you
             can
             clear
             your
             Innocence
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             'll
             stay
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             You
             must
             not
             ,
             haste
             you
             to
             your
             Monument
             ,
          
           
             While
             I
             make
             speed
             to
             Caesar.
             
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Caesar
             !
             No
             ,
          
           
             I
             have
             no
             business
             with
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             I
             can
             work
             him
             .
          
           
             To
             spare
             your
             Life
             ,
             and
             let
             this
             Madman
             perish
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Base
             fawning
             Wretch
             !
             wouldst
             thou
             betray
             him
             too
             ?
          
           
             Hence
             from
             my
             sight
             ,
             I
             will
             not
             hear
             a
             Traytor
             ;
          
           
             'T
             was
             thy
             Design
             brought
             all
             this
             ruine
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             just
             he
             tempt
             the
             Danger
             :
             let
             him
             clear
             you
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             since
             he
             offer'd
             you
             his
             servile
             tongue
             ,
          
           
             To
             gain
             a
             poor
             precarious
             Life
             from
             Caesar
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             expose
             that
             fawning
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             And
             speak
             to
             Antony
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             Heavens
             !
             I
             dare
             not
             ,
          
           
             I
             meet
             my
             certain
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Slave
             ,
             thou
             deserv'st
             it
             .
          
           
             Not
             that
             I
             fear
             my
             Lord
             ,
             will
             I
             avoid
             him
             ;
          
           
             I
             know
             him
             Noble
             :
             when
             he
             banish'd
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             thought
             me
             false
             ,
             he
             scorn'd
             to
             take
             my
             Life
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             'll
             be
             justifi'd
             ,
             and
             then
             die
             with
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             pity
             me
             ,
             and
             let
             me
             follow
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             To
             Death
             ,
             if
             thou
             stir
             hence
             .
             Speak
             ,
             if
             thou
             canst
             ,
          
           
             Now
             for
             thy
             Life
             ,
             which
             basely
             thou
             wou'dst
             save
             ;
          
           
             While
             mine
             I
             prize
             at
             this
             .
             Come
             ,
             good
             Serapion
             .
          
           
             Exeunt
             Clop
             .
             Serap
             .
             Char.
             Iras.
             
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             that
             I
             less
             cou'd
             fear
             to
             lose
             this
             Being
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ,
             like
             a
             Snow-ball
             ,
             in
             my
             Coward
             hand
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             't
             is
             grasp'd
             ,
             the
             faster
             melts
             away
             .
          
           
             Poor
             Reason
             !
             what
             a
             wretched
             Aid
             art
             thou
             !
          
           
             For
             still
             in
             spight
             of
             thee
             ,
          
           
             These
             two
             long
             Lovers
             ,
             Soul
             and
             Body
             ,
             dread
          
           
             Their
             final
             Separation
             .
             Let
             me
             think
             :
          
           
             What
             can
             I
             say
             ,
             to
             save
             my self
             from
             Death
             ?
          
           
             No
             matter
             what
             becomes
             of
             Cleopatra
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             within
             .
          
           
             Which
             way
             ?
             where
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             within
             .
          
           
             This
             leads
             to
             th'
             Monument
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Ah
             me
             !
             I
             hear
             him
             ;
             yet
             I
             'm
             unprepar'd
             :
          
           
             My
             gift
             of
             lying's
             gone
             ;
          
           
             And
             this
             Court-Devil
             ,
             which
             I
             so
             oft
             have
             rais'd
             ,
          
           
             Forsakes
             me
             at
             my
             need
             .
             I
             dare
             not
             stay
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             cannot
             far
             go
             hence
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Antony
             and
             Ventidius
             .
          
           
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             happy
             Caesar
             !
             Thou
             hast
             Men
             to
             lead
             :
          
           
             Think
             not
             't
             is
             thou
             hast
             conquer'd
             Antony
             ;
          
           
             B●…t
             Rome
             has
             conquer'd
             Egypt
             .
             I
             'm
             betray'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Curse
             on
             this
             treach'rous
             Train
             !
          
           
             Their
             So●…l
             and
             Heav'n
             infect
             'em
             all
             with
             Baseness
             :
          
           
             And
             their
             young
             Souls
             come
             tainted
             to
             the
             World
          
           
             With
             the
             first
             breath
             they
             draw
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Th'
             Original
             Villain
             sure
             no
             God
             created
             ;
          
           
             He
             was
             a
             Bastard
             of
             the
             Sun
             ,
             by
             Nile
             .
          
           
             Ap'd
             into
             Man
             :
             with
             all
             his
             Mother's
             Mud
          
           
             Crusted
             about
             his
             Soul.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             The
             Nation
             is
          
           
             One
             Universal
             Traitor
             ;
             and
             their
             Queen
          
           
             The
             very
             Spirit
             and
             Extract
             of
             'em
             all
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Is
             there
             yet
             left
          
           
             A
             possibility
             of
             Aid
             from
             Valour
             ?
          
           
             Is
             there
             one
             God
             unsworn
             to
             my
             Destruction
             ?
          
           
             The
             least
             unmortgag'd
             hope
             ?
             for
             ,
             if
             there
             be
             ,
          
           
             Methinks
             I
             cannot
             fall
             beneath
             the
             Fate
          
           
             Of
             such
             a
             Boy
             as
             Caesar.
          
           
             The
             World
             's
             one
             half
             is
             yet
             in
             Antony
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             from
             each
             Limb
             of
             it
             that
             's
             hew'd
             away
             ,
          
           
             The
             Soul
             comes
             back
             to
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             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
             're
             enough
             .
          
           
             We
             'll
             not
             divide
             our-Stars
             ;
             but
             side
             by
             side
          
           
             Fight
             em●…lous
             :
             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.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Now
             you
             shall
             see
             I
             love
             you
             .
             Not
             a
             word
          
           
             Of
             chiding
             more
             .
             By
             my
             few
             hours
             of
             Life
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             so
             pleas'd
             with
             this
             brave
             Roman
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             wou'd
             not
             be
             Caesar
             ,
             to
             out-live
             you
             .
          
           
             When
             we
             put
             off
             this
             Flesh
             ,
             and
             mount
             together
             ,
          
           
           
             I
             shall
             be
             shown
             to
             all
             th'
             Etherial
             crowd
             ;
          
           
             Lo
             ,
             this
             is
             he
             who
             dy'd
             with
             Antony
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Who
             knows
             but
             we
             may
             pierce
             through
             all
             their
             Troops
             ,
          
           
             And
             reach
             my
             Veterans
             yet
             ?
             'T
             is
             worth
             the
             tempting
             ,
          
           
             T'
             o'er-leap
             this
             Gulph
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             leave
             our
             wand'ring
             Destinies
             behind
             .
          
           
             Enter
             Alexas
             ,
             trombling
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             See
             ,
             see
             ,
             that
             Villain
             ;
          
           
             See
             Cleopatra
             stampt
             upon
             that
             Face
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             her
             cunning
             ,
             all
             her
             Arts
             of
             Falshood
             !
          
           
             How
             she
             looks
             out
             through
             those
             dissembling
             Eyes
             !
          
           
             How
             he
             sets
             his
             Count'nance
             for
             deceit
             ;
          
           
             And
             promises
             a
             Lye
             ,
             before
             he
             speaks
             !
          
           
             Let
             me
             dispatch
             him
             first
             .
          
           
             (
             Drawing
             )
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             spare
             me
             ,
             spare
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Hold
             ;
             he
             's
             not
             worth
             your
             killing
             .
             On
             thy
             Life
             ,
          
           
             (
             Which
             thou
             mayst
             keep
             ,
             because
             I
             scorn
             to
             take
             it
             )
          
           
             No
             Syllable
             to
             justifie
             thy
             Queen
             ;
          
           
             Save
             thy
             base
             tongue
             its
             Office.
             
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Sir
             she
             's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Where
             she
             shall
             never
             be
             molested
             more
          
           
             By
             Love
             ,
             or
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Fled
             to
             her
             Dollabella
             !
          
           
             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
             Falshood
             ;
             my
             whole
             Life
          
           
             Has
             been
             a
             Golden
             dream
             ,
             of
             Love
             and
             Friendship
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             now
             I
             wake
             ,
             I
             'm
             like
             a
             Merchant
             ,
             rows'd
          
           
             From
             soft
             repose
             ,
             to
             see
             his
             Vessel
             sinking
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             his
             Wealth
             cast
             o'er
             .
             Ingrateful
             Woman
             !
          
           
             Who
             follow'd
             me
             ,
             but
             as
             the
             Swallow
             Summer
             ,
          
           
             Hatching
             her
             young
             ones
             in
             my
             kindly
             Beams
             ,
          
           
             Singing
             her
             flatt'ries
             to
             my
             morning
             wake
             ;
          
           
             But
             ,
             now
             my
             Winter
             comes
             ,
             she
             spread
             her
             wings
             ,
          
           
             And
             seeks
             the
             Spring
             of
             Caesar.
             
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Think
             not
             so
             :
          
           
             Her
             Fortunes
             have
             ,
             in
             all
             things
             ,
             mixt
             with
             yours
             .
          
           
             Had
             she
             betray'd
             her
             Naval
             force
             to
             Rome
             ,
          
           
             How
             easily
             might
             she
             have
             gone
             to
             Caesar
             ,
          
           
             Secure
             by
             such
             a
             Bride
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             She
             sent
             it
             first
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             more
             welcome
             after
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             too
             plain
             ;
          
           
             Else
             wou'd
             she
             have
             appear'd
             ,
             to
             clear
             her self
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Too
             fatally
             she
             has
             ;
             she
             could
             not
             bear
          
           
             To
             be
             accus'd
             by
             you
             ;
             but
             shut
             her self
          
           
           
             Within
             her
             Monument
             :
             look'd
             down
             ,
             and
             sigh'd
             ;
          
           
             While
             ,
             from
             her
             unchang'd
             face
             ,
             the
             silent
             tears
          
           
             Dropt
             ,
             as
             they
             had
             not
             leave
             ,
             but
             stole
             their
             parting
             .
          
           
             Some
             undistinguish'd
             words
             she
             inly
             murmur'd
             ;
          
           
             At
             last
             ,
             she
             rais'd
             her
             Eyes
             ;
             and
             ,
             with
             such
             Looks
          
           
             As
             dying
             Lucrece
             cast
             ,
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             My
             heart
             forbodes
             .
             —
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             All
             for
             the
             best
             :
             go
             on
             .
          
        
         
           
             Alex.
             
          
           
             She
             snatch'd
             her
             Ponyard
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             ere
             we
             cou'd
             prevent
             the
             fatal
             Blow
             ,
          
           
             Plung'd
             it
             within
             her
             Breast
             :
             then
             turn'd
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             Go
             ,
             bear
             my
             Lord
             (
             said
             she
             )
             my
             last
             Farewel
             ;
          
           
             And
             ask
             him
             if
             he
             yet
             suspect
             my
             Faith.
          
           
             More
             she
             was
             saying
             ,
             but
             Death
             rush'd
             betwixt
             .
          
           
             She
             half
             pronounc'd
             your
             Name
             with
             her
             last
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             And
             bury'd
             half
             within
             her
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Heav'n
             be
             prais'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Then
             art
             thou
             innocent
             ,
             my
             poor
             dear
             Love
             ?
          
           
             And
             art
             thou
             dead
             ?
          
           
             O
             those
             two
             words
             !
             their
             Sound
             shou'd
             be
             divided
             :
          
           
             Hadst
             thou
             been
             false
             ,
             and
             dy'd
             ;
             or
             hadst
             thou
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             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
             !
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Is
             't
             come
             to
             this
             ?
             The
             Gods
             have
             been
             too
             graciou
             :
          
           
             And
             thus
             you
             thank
             'em
             for
             't
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             to
             Alex.
             
          
           
             Why
             stay'st
             thou
             here
             ?
          
           
             Is
             〈◊〉
             ●…or
             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.
             
          
           
             Aside
             .
          
           
             He
             loves
             her
             still
             :
          
           
             His
             grief
             betrays
             it
             .
             Good
             !
             The
             joy
             to
             find
          
           
             She
             's
             yet
             alive
             ,
             compleats
             the
             Reconcilement
             .
          
           
             I
             've
             sav'd
             my self
             ,
             and
             her
             .
             But
             ,
             Oh!
             the
             Romans
             !
          
           
             Fate
             comes
             too
             fast
             upon
             my
             Wit.
          
           
             Hunts
             me
             too
             hard
             ,
             and
             meets
             me
             at
             each
             double
             :
          
           
             Exit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Wou'd
             she
             had
             dy'd
             a
             little
             sooner
             tho
             ,
          
           
             Before
             Octavia
             went
             ;
             you
             might
             have
             treated
             :
          
           
             Now
             't
             will
             look
             tame
             ,
             and
             wou'd
             not
             be
             receiv'd
             .
          
           
             Come
             ,
             rouze
             your self
             ,
             and
             le
             ts
             die
             warm
             together
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             fight
             :
             there
             's
             no
             more
             work
             for
             War.
          
           
             The
             bus'ness
             of
             my
             angry
             hours
             is
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             V●…n
             .
          
           
             Caesar
             is
             at
             your
             Gates
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Why
             ,
             let
             him
             enter
             ,
          
           
             〈◊〉
             welcome
             now
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ven.
             
          
           
             What
             Lethargy
             has
             crept
             into
             your
             Soul
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             but
             a
             scorn
             of
             Life
             ,
             and
             just
             desire
          
           
             To
             free
             my self
             from
             Bondage
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Do
             it
             bravely
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             ;
             but
             not
             by
             fighting
             .
             O
             ,
             Ventidius
             !
          
           
             What
             shou'd
             I
             fight
             for
             now
             ?
             My
             Queen
             is
             dead
             .
          
           
             I
             was
             but
             great
             for
             her
             ;
             my
             Pow'r
             ,
             my
             Empire
             ,
          
           
             Were
             but
             my
             Merchandise
             to
             buy
             her
             Love
             ;
          
           
             And
             conquer'd
             Kings
             ,
             my
             Factors
             .
             Now
             she
             's
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Let
             Caesar
             take
             the
             World
             ,
             —
          
           
             An
             Empty
             Circle
             ,
             since
             the
             Jewel
             's
             gone
          
           
             Which
             made
             it
             worth
             my
             strife
             :
             my
             Being's
             nauseous
             ;
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             Bribes
             of
             Life
             are
             gone
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Wou'd
             you
             be
             taken
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             I
             wou'd
             be
             taken
             ;
          
           
             But
             ,
             as
             a
             Roman
             ought
             ,
             dead
             ,
             my
             Ventidius
             :
          
           
             For
             I
             'll
             convey
             my
             Soul
             from
             
             Caesar's
             reach
             ,
          
           
             And
             lay
             down
             life
             my self
             .
             'T
             is
             time
             the
             World
          
           
             Shou'd
             have
             a
             Lord
             ,
             and
             know
             whom
             to
             obey
             .
          
           
             We
             two
             have
             kept
             its
             Homage
             in
             suspence
             ,
          
           
             And
             bent
             the
             Globe
             on
             whose
             each
             side
             we
             trod
             ,
          
           
             Tell
             it
             was
             dinted
             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
             Desart
             ,
             at
             the
             approach
             of
             Night
             :
          
           
             I
             'll
             lay
             me
             down
             ,
             and
             stray
             no
             ●…arther
             on
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             cou'd
             be
             griev'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             I
             'll
             not
             out-live
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             scarce
             worth
             giving
             .
             I
             cou'd
             wish
             indeed
          
           
             We
             threw
             it
             from
             us
             with
             a
             better
             Grace
             ;
          
           
             That
             ,
             like
             two
             Lyons
             taken
             in
             the
             Toils
             ,
          
           
             We
             might
             at
             last
             thrust
             out
             our
             paws
             ,
             and
             wound
          
           
             The
             Hunters
             that
             inclose
             us
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             have
             thought
             on
             't
             .
          
           
             Ventidius
             ,
             you
             must
             live
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             must
             not
             Sir.
             
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Wilt
             thou
             not
             live
             ,
             to
             speak
             some
             good
             of
             me
             ?
          
           
             To
             stand
             by
             my
             fair
             Fame
             ,
             and
             guard
             th'
             approaches
          
           
             From
             the
             ill
             Tongues
             of
             Men
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Who
             shall
             guard
             mine
             ,
          
           
             For
             living
             after
             you
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Say
             ,
             I
             command
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             If
             we
             die
             well
             ,
             our
             Deaths
             w●…ll
             speak
             themselves
             ,
          
           
             And
             need
             no
             living
             Witness
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Thou
             hast
             lov'd
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             ●…ain
             I
             wou'd
             reward
             thee
             :
             I
             must
             die
             ;
          
           
             Kill
             me
             ,
             and
             take
             the
             Merit
             of
             my
             Death
          
           
             To
             make
             thee
             Friends
             with
             C●…sar
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Thank
             your
             kindness
             .
          
           
             You
             said
             I
             lov'd
             you
             ;
             and
             ,
             in
             recompence
             ,
          
           
             You
             bid
             me
             turn
             a
             Traitor
             :
             did
             I
             think
          
           
             You
             wou'd
             have
             us'd
             me
             thus
             ?
             that
             I
             shou'd
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             By
             Heav'n
             ,
             I
             will
             not
             .
          
           
             Let
             it
             not
             be
             t'
             out-live
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Kill
             me
             first
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             die
             thou
             :
             for
             't
             is
             but
             just
             thou
             serve
          
           
             Thy
             Friend
             ,
             before
             thy self
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Give
             me
             your
             ha●…d
             .
          
           
             We
             soon
             shall
             meet
             again
             .
             Now
             farewel
             ,
             Emperor
             .
          
           
             (
             Embrace
             .
             )
          
           
             Methinks
             that
             word
             's
             too
             cold
             to
             be
             my
             last
             :
          
           
             Since
             Death
             sweeps
             dsstinctions
             ,
             Farewel
             ,
             Friend
             .
          
           
             That
             's
             all
             .
             —
             —
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             make
             a
             bus'ness
             of
             a
             trifle
             :
          
           
             And
             yet
             I
             cannot
             look
             on
             you
             ,
             and
             kill
             you
             ;
          
           
             Pray
             turn
             your
             Face
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             do
             :
             strike
             home
             sure
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             Home
             ,
             as
             my
             Sword
             will
             reach
             .
          
           
             (
             Kills
             himself
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             thou
             mistak'st
             ;
          
           
             That
             wound
             was
             none
             of
             thine
             :
             give
             it
             me
             back
             :
          
           
             Thou
             robb'st
             me
             of
             my
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ven.
             
          
           
             I
             do
             indeed
             ;
          
           
             But
             ,
             think
             't
             is
             the
             first
             time
             I
             e'er
             deceiv'd
             you
             ;
          
           
             I●…
             that
             may
             plead
             my
             Pardon
             .
             And
             you
             ,
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             Forgive
             me
             ,
             if
             you
             will
             ;
             for
             I
             die
             perjur'd
             ,
          
           
             Rather
             then
             kill
             my
             Friend
             .
          
           
             (
             Dies
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Farewel
             .
             Ever
             my
             Leader
             ,
             ev'n
             in
             Death
             !
          
           
             My
             Queen
             and
             thou
             have
             got
             the
             start
             of
             me
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             'm
             the
             lag
             of
             Honour
             .
             —
             —
             Gone
             so
             soon
             ?
          
           
             Is
             Death
             no
             more
             ?
             He
             us'd
             him
             carelesly
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             familiar
             kindness
             :
             ere
             he
             knock'd
             ,
          
           
             Ran
             to
             the
             Door
             ,
             and
             took
             him
             in
             his
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             As
             who
             shou'd
             say
             ,
             Y'
             are
             welcome
             at
             all
             hours
             ,
          
           
             A
             Friend
             need
             give
             no
             warning
             .
             Books
             had
             spoil'd
             him
             ;
          
           
             ●…or
             all
             the
             Learn'd
             are
             Cowards
             by
             profession
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             not
             worth
          
           
           
             My
             farther
             thought
             :
             for
             Death
             ,
             for
             ought
             I
             know
             ,
          
           
             Is
             but
             to
             think
             no
             more
             Here
             's
             to
             be
             satisfi'd
             .
          
           
             (
             Falls
             on
             his
             Sword.
             )
          
           
             I
             've
             mist
             my
             heart
             .
             O
             unperforming
             hand
             !
          
           
             Thou
             never
             cou'dst
             have
             err'd
             in
             a
             worse
             time
             .
          
           
             My
             Fortune
             jades
             me
             to
             the
             last
             ;
             and
             Death
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             great
             Man
             ,
             takes
             state
             ,
             and
             makes
             me
             wait
          
           
             For
             my
             Admittance
             —
             —
             .
          
           
             (
             Trampling
             within
             .
             )
          
           
             Some
             perhaps
             from
             Caesar
             :
          
           
             If
             he
             shou'd
             find
             me
             living
             ,
             and
             suspect
          
           
             That
             I
             plaid
             booty
             with
             my
             Life
             !
             I
             'll
             mend
          
           
             My
             work
             ,
             ere
             they
             can
             reach
             me
             .
          
           
             (
             Rises
             upon
             his
             Knees
             .
             )
          
           
             Enter
             
               Cleopatra
               ,
               Charmion
               ,
               Iras.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Where
             is
             my
             Lord
             ?
             where
             is
             he
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             There
             he
             lies
             ,
          
           
             And
             dead
             Ven●…idius
             by
             him
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             My
             sears
             were
             Prophets
             ;
             I
             am
             come
             too
             late
             .
          
           
             O
             that
             accurs'd
             Alexas
             !
          
           
             (
             Runs
             to
             him
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Art
             thou
             living
             ?
          
           
             Or
             am
             I
             dead
             before
             I
             knew
             ?
             and
             thou
          
           
             T●…e
             first
             kind
             Ghost
             that
             meets
             me
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Help
             me
             Seat
             him
             .
          
           
             Send
             quickly
             ,
             send
             for
             help
             .
          
           
             (
             They
             place
             him
             in
             a
             Chair
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             I
             am
             answer'd
             .
          
           
             We
             live
             both
             .
             Sit
             thee
             down
             ,
             my
             Cleopatr●…
             :
          
           
             I
             'll
             make
             the
             most
             I
             can
             of
             Life
             ,
             to
             stay
          
           
             A
             moment
             more
             with
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             How
             is
             it
             with
             you
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             T
             is
             as
             with
             a
             Man
          
           
             Removing
             in
             a
             hurry
             ;
             all
             pack'd
             up
             ,
          
           
             But
             one
             dear
             Jewel
             that
             his
             haste
             forgot
             ;
          
           
             And
             he
             ,
             for
             that
             returns
             upon
             the
             spur
             :
          
           
             So
             I
             come
             back
             ,
             for
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Too
             long
             ,
             you
             Heav'ns
             ,
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             now
             too
             late
          
           
             To
             say
             I
             'm
             true
             :
             I
             'll
             prove
             it
             ,
             and
             die
             with
             you
             ,
          
           
             Unknown
             to
             me
             ,
             Alexas
             feign'd
             my
             Death
             :
          
           
             Which
             ,
             when
             I
             knew
             ,
             I
             hasted
             to
             prevent
          
           
             This
             ●…atal
             consequence
             .
             My
             Fleet
             betray'd
          
           
             Both
             you
             and
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             And
             Dollabella
             .
             —
             —
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Scarce
             esteem'd
             before
             he
             lov'd
             ;
             but
             hated
             now
             .
          
        
         
           
             
             Ant.
             
          
           
             Enough
             :
             my
             Life
             's
             not
             long
             enough
             for
             more
             .
          
           
             Thou
             sayst
             thou
             wilt
             come
             after
             :
             I
             believe
             thee
             ;
          
           
             For
             I
             can
             now
             believe
             whate'er
             thou
             sayst
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             may
             part
             more
             kindly
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             I
             will
             come
             :
          
           
             Doubt
             not
             ,
             my
             Life
             ,
             I
             'll
             come
             ,
             and
             quickly
             too
             :
          
           
             Caesar
             shall
             triumph
             o'er
             no
             part
             of
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             But
             grieve
             not
             ,
             while
             thou
             stay'st
          
           
             My
             last
             disastrous
             Times
             :
          
           
             Think
             we
             have
             had
             a
             clear
             and
             glorious
             day
             ;
          
           
             And
             Heav'n
             did
             kindly
             to
             delay
             the
             Storm
          
           
             Just
             till
             our
             close
             of
             Ev'ning
             .
             Ten
             years
             love
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             a
             moment
             lost
             ,
             but
             all
             improv'd
          
           
             To
             th'
             utmost
             Joys
             :
             What
             Ages
             have
             we
             liv'd
             ?
          
           
             And
             now
             to
             die
             each
             others
             ;
             and
             ,
             so
             dying
             ,
          
           
             While
             hand
             in
             hand
             we
             walk
             in
             Groves
             below
             ,
          
           
             Whole
             Troops
             of
             Lovers
             Ghosts
             shall
             flock
             about
             u●…
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Train
             be
             ours
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Your
             words
             are
             like
             the
             Notes
             of
             dying
             Swans
             ,
          
           
             Too
             sweet
             to
             last
             .
             Were
             there
             so
             many
             hours
          
           
             For
             your
             unkindness
             ,
             and
             not
             one
             for
             Love
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Ant.
             
          
           
             No
             ,
             not
             a
             minute
             .
             —
             This
             one
             kiss
             —
             more
             worth
          
           
             Than
             all
             I
             leave
             to
             Caesar.
             
          
           
             (
             Dies
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             O
             ,
             tell
             me
             so
             again
             ,
          
           
             And
             take
             Ten
             thousand
             kisses
             ,
             for
             that
             word
             .
          
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
             my
             Lord
             :
             speak
             ,
             if
             you
             yet
             have
             being
             ;
          
           
             Sigh
             to
             me
             ,
             if
             you
             cannot
             speak
             ;
             or
             cast
          
           
             O●…e
             look
             :
             Do
             any
             thing
             that
             shows
             you
             live
             .
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             He
             's
             gone
             too
             far
             ,
             to
             hear
             you
             ;
          
           
             And
             this
             you
             see
             ,
             a
             Lump
             of
             sensless
             ●…lay
             ,
          
           
             The
             leavings
             of
             a
             Soul.
             
          
        
         
           
             C●…ar
             .
          
           
             Remember
             Madam
             ,
          
           
             He
             charg'd
             you
             not
             to
             grieve
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             And
             I
             'll
             obey
             him
             .
          
           
             I
             have
             not
             lov'd
             a
             Roman
             not
             to
             know
          
           
             What
             should
             become
             of
             his
             Wife
             ;
             his
             Wife
             ,
             my
             Charmion●…
          
           
             For
             't
             is
             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
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Why
             shou'dst
             thou
             make
             that
             Question
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Caesar
             is
             most
             merciful
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Let
             him
             be
             so●…
          
           
             To
             ●…hose
             that
             want
             his
             Mercy
             :
             my
             poor
             Lord
          
           
             Made
             no
             such
             Cov'nant
             with
             him
             to
             spare
             me
          
           
           
             When
             he
             was
             dead
             .
             Yield
             me
             to
             
             Caesar's
             pride
             ?
          
           
             What
             ,
             to
             be
             led
             in
             Triumph
             through
             the
             Streets
             ,
          
           
             A
             Spectacle
             to
             base
             Plebeian
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             While
             some
             dejected
             Friend
             of
             
             Antony's
             ,
          
           
             Close
             in
             a
             Corner
             ,
             shakes
             his
             Head
             ,
             and
             mutters
          
           
             A
             Secret
             Curse
             on
             her
             who
             ruin'd
             him
             ?
          
           
             I
             'll
             none
             of
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             Whatever
             you
             resolve
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             follow
             ev'n
             to
             Death
             .
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             I
             only
             fear'd
          
           
             For
             you
             ;
             but
             more
             shou'd
             fear
             to
             live
             without
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Why
             ,
             now
             't
             is
             as
             it
             shou'd
             be
             .
             Quick
             ,
             my
             Friends
             ,
          
           
             Dispatch
             ;
             ere
             this
             ,
             the
             Town
             's
             in
             
             Caesar's
             hands
             :
          
           
             My
             Lord
             looks
             down
             concern'd
             ,
             and
             fears
             my
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             I
             shou'd
             be
             surpriz'd
             ;
          
           
             Keep
             him
             not
             waiting
             for
             his
             Love
             too
             long
             .
          
           
             You
             ,
             Charmion
             ,
             bring
             my
             Crown
             and
             richest
             Jewels
             ,
          
           
             With
             'em
             ,
             the
             Wreath
             of
             Victory
             I
             made
          
           
             (
             Vain
             Augury
             !
             )
             for
             him
             who
             now
             lies
             dead
             ;
          
           
             You
             ,
             Iras
             ,
             bring
             the
             Cure
             of
             all
             our
             Ills.
             
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             The
             Aspicks
             ,
             Madam
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Must
             I
             bid
             you
             twice
             ?
          
           
             Exeunt
             Char.
             and
             I●…as
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             sweet
             to
             die
             ,
             when
             they
             wou'd
             force
             life
             on
             me
             ,
          
           
             To
             rush
             into
             the
             dark
             aboad
             of
             Death
             ,
          
           
             And
             seize
             him
             first
             ;
             if
             he
             be
             like
             my
             Love
             ,
          
           
             He
             is
             not
             frightful
             sure
             .
          
           
             We
             're
             now
             alone
             ,
             in
             secresie
             and
             silence
             ;
          
           
             And
             is
             not
             this
             like
             Lovers
             ?
             I
             may
             kiss
          
           
             These
             pale
             ,
             cold
             Lips
             ;
             Octavia
             does
             not
             see
             me
             ;
          
           
             And
             ,
             Oh!
             't
             is
             better
             far
             to
             have
             him
             thus
             ,
          
           
             Than
             see
             him
             in
             her
             Arms.
             —
             O
             welcome
             ,
             welcome
             .
          
           
             Enter
             
               Charmion
               ,
               Iras.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             What
             must
             be
             done
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
          
           
             Cou'dst
             triumph
             o'er
             thy self
             ;
             and
             thou
             alone
          
           
             Wert
             worthy
             so
             to
             triumph
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             To
             what
             end
          
           
             These
             Ensigns
             of
             your
             Pomp
             and
             Royalty
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Dull
             ,
             that
             thou
             art
             !
             why
             ,
             't
             is
             to
             meet
             my
             Love
             ;
          
           
             As
             when
             I
             saw
             him
             first
             ,
             on
             Cydnos
             bank
             ,
          
           
             All
             sparkling
             ,
             like
             a
             Goddess
             ;
             so
             adorn'd
             ,
          
           
             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.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             Now
             seat
             me
             by
             my
             Lord.
             I
             claim
             this
             place
             ;
          
           
             For
             I
             must
             Conquer
             Caesar
             too
             ,
             like
             him
             ,
          
           
             And
             win
             my
             share
             o'
             th'
             World.
             Hail
             ,
             you
             dear
             Relicks
          
           
             Of
             my
             Immortal
             Love
             !
          
           
             O
             let
             no
             Impious
             hand
             remove
             you
             hence
             ;
          
           
             But
             rest
             for
             ever
             here
             :
             let
             Egypt
             give
          
           
             His
             Death
             that
             Peace
             ,
             which
             it
             deny'd
             his
             Life
             .
          
           
             Reach
             me
             the
             Casket
             .
          
        
         
           
             I●…s
             .
          
           
             Underneath
             the
             fruit
             the
             Aspick
             lies
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             putting
             aside
             the
             leaves
          
           
             Welcom
             ,
             thou
             kind
             Deceiver
             !
          
           
             Thou
             best
             of
             Thieves
             ;
             who
             ,
             with
             an
             easie
             key
             ,
          
           
             Do'st
             open
             Life
             ,
             and
             unperceiv'd
             by
             us
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             steal
             us
             from
             our selves
             :
             discharging
             so
          
           
             Death's
             dreadful
             Office
             ,
             better
             than
             himself
             ,
          
           
             Touching
             our
             Limbs
             so
             gently
             into
             slumber
             ,
          
           
             That
             Death
             stands
             by
             ,
             deceiv'd
             by
             his
             own
             Image
             ,
          
           
             And
             thinks
             himself
             but
             Sleep
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
             within
             .
          
           
             The
             Queen
             ,
             where
             is
             she
             ?
          
           
             The
             Town
             is
             yielded
             ,
             
             Caesar's
             at
             the
             Gates
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             He
             comes
             too
             late
             to
             invade
             the
             Rights
             of
             Death
             .
          
           
             Haste
             ,
             bare
             my
             Arm
             ,
             and
             rouze
             the
             Serpents
             fury
             .
          
           
             [
             Holds
             out
             her
             Arm
             and
             draws
             it
             back
             .
          
           
             Coward
             Flesh
             —
          
           
             Woud'st
             thou
             conspire
             with
             Caesar
             ,
             to
             betray
             me
             ,
          
           
             As
             thou
             wert
             none
             of
             mine
             ?
             I
             'll
             force
             thee
             to
             't
             ,
          
           
             And
             not
             be
             sent
             by
             him
             ,
          
           
             But
             bring
             my Self
             ,
             my
             Soul
             to
             Antony
             .
          
           
             [
             Turns
             aside
             ,
             and
             then
             shows
             her
             Arm
             bloody
             .
          
           
             Take
             hence
             ;
             the
             work
             is
             done
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
             within
             .
          
           
             Break
             ope
             the
             Door
             ,
          
           
             And
             guard
             the
             Traitor
             well
             .
          
        
         
           
             Char.
             
          
           
             The
             next
             is
             ours
             .
          
        
         
           
             Iras.
             
          
           
             Now
             ,
             Charmion
             ,
             to
             be
             worthy
          
           
             Of
             your
             great
             Queen
             and
             Mistress
             .
          
           
             [
             They
             apply
             the
             Aspicks
             .
          
        
         
           
             Cleop.
             
          
           
             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
             numness
             creeps
             through
             every
             Limb
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             't
             is
             at
             my
             Head
             :
             my
             Eye-lids
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             my
             dear
             Love
             is
             vanish'd
             in
             a
             Mist.
          
           
             Where
             shall
             I
             find
             him
             ,
             where
             ?
             O
             turn
             me
             to
             him
             ,
          
           
             And
             lay
             me
             on
             his
             Breast
             .
             —
             Caesar
             ,
             thy
             worst
             ;
          
           
             Now
             part
             us
             ,
             if
             thou
             caust
             .
          
           
             (
             Dies
             .
             )
             Iras
             sinks
             down
             at
             her
             feet
             ,
             and
             dies
             Charmion
             stands
             behind
             her
             Chair
             ,
             as
             dressing
             her
             Head.
             
          
           
             Enter
             S●…on
             ,
             two
             Priests
             ,
             Alexas
             bound
             ,
             Egyptians
             .
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
             Pr●…
             .
          
           
             〈◊〉
             ,
             Serapion
             ,
             what
             havock
             Death
             has
             made
             !
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             〈◊〉
             ●…ar'd
             .
          
           
             Charmion
             ,
             is
             this
             well
             done
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
             Char.
             
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             't
             is
             well
             done
             ,
             and
             like
             a
             Queen
             ,
             the
             last
          
           
             Of
             her
             great
             Race
             :
             I
             follow
             her
             .
          
           
             (
             Sinks
             down
             ;
             Dies
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             Alexas
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             true
             ,
          
           
             She
             has
             done
             well
             :
             much
             better
             thus
             to
             die
             ,
          
           
             Than
             live
             to
             make
             a
             Holy-day
             in
             Rome
             .
          
        
         
           
             Serap
             .
          
           
             See
             ,
             see
             how
             the
             Lovers
             sit
             in
             State
             together
             ,
          
           
             As
             they
             were
             giving
             Laws
             to
             half
             Mankind
             .
          
           
             Th'
             impression
             of
             a
             Smile
             left
             in
             her
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Shows
             she
             dy'd
             pleas'd
             with
             him
             for
             whom
             she
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             went
             to
             Charm
             him
             in
             another
             World.
          
           
             
             Caesars's
             just
             entring
             ;
             grief
             has
             now
             no
             leisure
             .
          
           
             Secure
             that
             Villain
             ,
             as
             our
             pledge
             of
             safety
          
           
             To
             grace
             th'
             Imperial
             Triumph
             .
             Sleep
             ,
             blest
             Pair
             ,
          
           
             Secure
             from
             humane
             Chance
             ,
             long
             Ages
             out
             ,
          
           
             While
             all
             the
             Storms
             of
             Fate
             fly
             o'er
             your
             Tomb
             ;
          
           
             And
             Fame
             ,
             to
             late
             Posterity
             ,
             shall
             tell
             ,
          
           
             No
             Lovers
             liv'd
             so
             great
             ,
             or
             dy'd
             so
             well
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           Epilogue
           .
        
         
           
             POets
             ,
             like
             Disputants
             ,
             when
             Reasons
             fail
             ,
          
           
             Have
             one
             sure
             Refurge
             left
             and
             that
             's
             to
             rail
             ;
          
           
             Fop
             ,
             Coxcomb
             ,
             Fool
             ,
             are
             thunder'd
             through
             the
             Pit
             ;
          
           
             And
             this
             is
             all
             their
             Equipage
             of
             Wit.
          
           
             We
             wonder
             how
             the
             Devil
             this
             diff'rence
             grows
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             our
             Fools
             in
             Verse
             ,
             and
             yours
             in
             Prose
             ?
          
           
             For
             ,
             'Faith
             ,
             the
             quarrel
             rightly
             understood
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             
               Civil
               War
            
             with
             their
             own
             Flesh
             and
             Blood.
          
           
             The
             Thread-bare
             Author
             hates
             the
             gawdy
             Coat
             ;
          
           
             And
             swears
             at
             the
             Gilt
             Coach
             ,
             but
             swears
             a
             foot
             :
          
           
             For
             't
             is
             observ'd
             of
             every
             Scribling
             Man
             ,
          
           
             He
             grows
             a
             Fop
             as
             fast
             as
             e'er
             he
             can
             ;
          
           
             Prunes
             up
             ,
             and
             asks
             his
             Oracle
             the
             Glass
             ,
          
           
             If
             Pink
             or
             Purple
             best
             become
             his
             Face
             .
          
           
             For
             our
             poor
             Wretch
             ,
             he
             neither
             rails
             nor
             prays
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             likes
             your
             Wit
             just
             as
             you
             like
             his
             Plays
             ;
          
           
             He
             has
             not
             yet
             so
             much
             of
             Mr.
             Bays
             .
          
           
             He
             does
             his
             best
             ;
             and
             ,
             if
             he
             cannot
             please
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             quietly
             sue
             out
             his
             Writ
             of
             Ease
             .
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             if
             he
             might
             his
             own
             Grand
             Jury
             call
             ,
          
           
             By
             the
             Fair
             Sex
             he
             begs
             to
             stand
             or
             fall
             .
          
           
             Let
             
             Caesar's
             Pow'r
             the
             Mens
             ambition
             move
             ,
          
           
             But
             grace
             you
             him
             who
             lost
             the
             World
             for
             Love.
          
           
             Yet
             if
             some
             '
             antiquated
             Lady
             say
             ,
          
           
             The
             last
             Age
             is
             not
             Copy'd
             in
             his
             Play
             ;
          
           
             Heav'n
             help
             the
             Man
             who
             for
             that
             Face
             must
             drudge
             ,
          
           
             Which
             only
             has
             the
             wrinkles
             of
             a
             Judge
             .
          
           
             Let
             not
             the
             Young
             and
             Beauteous
             joyn
             with
             those
             ;
          
           
             For
             shou'd
             you
             raise
             such
             numerous
             Hosts
             of
             Foes
             ,
          
           
             Young
             Wits
             and
             Sparke
             he
             to
             his
             aid
             must
             call
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             more
             than
             one
             Man's
             work
             to
             please
             you
             all
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .