1

Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments, That make sin pleasing?

Cleo. You may blush you want them. If bounteous nature, if indulgent heaven, Have given me charms to please the bravest man, Should I not thank them? should I be ashamed, And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me; And, when I love not him, heaven change this face

For one like that!

Oct. Thou lovest him not so well.

Cleo. I love him better, and deserve him more. Oct. You do not, cannot: you have been his ruin.

Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra?
Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra?
At Actium who betrayed him? Cleopatra.
Who made his children orphans, and poor me
A wretched widow? only Cleopatra.

Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra.
If you have suffered, I have suffered more.
You bear the specious title of a wife,

To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world
To favour it: the world contemns poor me,
For I have lost my honour, lost my fame,
And stained the glory of my royal house,
And all to bear the branded name of mistress.
There wants but life, and that too I would lose
For him I love.

Oct. Be it so then; take thy wish.

[Exit with Vent.

Cleo. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost, for whom I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances And swims before me in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn: But now she's gone they faint.

Alex. Mine have had leisure

To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel To ruin her, who else must ruin you.

Cleo. Vain promiser!

Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras.
My grief has weight enough to sink you both.
Conduct me to some solitary chamber,
And draw the curtains round,
Then leave me to myself, to take alone
My fill of grief;

There I till death will his unkindness weep,
As harmless infants mourn themselves asleep.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-A Saloon.

Enter ANTONY and DOLABElla.

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,

I could pull out an eye and bid it go,
And the other should not weep. Oh, Dolabella!
How many deaths are in this word ' Depart!'
I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:
One look of her's would thaw me into tears,
And I should melt, till I were lost again.
Dol. 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, Dol. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood.—I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest.

Ant. Therefore, therefore

Thou, only thou, art fit. Think thyself me,
And when thou speakest (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?
Dol. 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. Fare-
well!

I sent her word to meet you.

I forgot:

[Goes to the door, and comes back.

Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine:
Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,
If I have power with Cæsar-Oh! be sure
To think on that!

Dol. Fear not, I will remember. [Antony goes again to the door, and comes back. Ant. And tell her too, how much I was constrained;

I did not this but with extremest force.
Desire her not to hate my memory,
For I'll still cherish hers- -insist on that.
Dol. Trust me, I'll not forget it.
Ant. Then that's all.

[Goes out and returns again.
Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more?
Tell her, though we shall never meet again,
If I should hear she took another love,
The news would break my heart-Now I must

go,

For every time, I have returned, I feel
My soul more tender, and my next command
Would be to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.
Dol. Men are but children of a larger growth,

But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,
Works all her folly up, and casts it outward
To the world's open view. Thus I discovered,
And blamed the love of ruined Antony,
Yet wish, that I were he, to be so ruined.

Enter VENTIDIUS above.

Vent. Alone, and talking to himself! Concerned too!

Perhaps my guess is right: he loved her once, And may pursue it still.

Dol. Oh, friendship! friendship!

Ill canst thou answer this, reason worse:
Unfaithful in the attempt, hopeless to win,
And, if I win, undone. Mere madness all.
And yet the occasion fair. What injury
To him, to wear the robe, which he throws by?
Vent. None, none at all. This happens as I

wish,

To ruin her yet more with Antony.

[Aside.

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

Cleo. I grant you jealousy's a proof of love,
But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine;
It puts out the disease, and makes it show,
But has no power to cure.

Alex. "Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit

To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young,
And looks as he were laid for nature's bait
To catch weak women's eyes.

He stands already more than half suspected
Of loving you: the least kind word or glance,
You give this youth, will kindle him with love;

Then, like a burning vessel set adrift,
You'll send him down amain before the wind,
To fire the heart of jealous Antony.

Cleo. Can I do this? ah, no! my love's so true,
That I can neither hide it, where it is,
Nor show it, where it is not.

Nature meant me A wife, a silly, harmless household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But fortune, that has inade a mistress of ine, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy.

Alex. Force yourself;

The event will be, your lover will return
Doubly desirous to possess the good,
Which once he feared to lose.

Cleo. I must attempt it;

But oh, with what regret!

[Exit Alex. She comes up to Dolabella. Vent. So now the scene draws near; they're in my reach.

Cleo. to Dol. Discoursing with my women!
Might not I

Share in your entertainment?

Char. You have been

The subject of it, madam.

Cleo. How! and how?

Iras. Such praises of your beauty!
Cleo. Mere poetry:

Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus,
Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.
Dol. Those Roman wits have never been in
Egypt.

Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung:
I, who have seen-had I been born a poet,
Should chuse a nobler name,

Cleo. You flatter me;

But it is your nation's vice: all of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend is like

Cleo. No, no, I am not run mad; I can bear fortune;

And love may be expelled by other love,
As poisons are by poisons.

Dol. -You overjoy me, madam,
To find your griefs so moderately borne.
You have the worst: all are not false like him.
Cleo. No, heaven forbid they should!
Dol. Some men are constant.

Cleo. And constancy deserves reward, that is certain.

Dol. Deserves it not, but give it leave to hope. Vent. I'll swear thou hast my leave. I have

enough:

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

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 chearfulness,
That makes my task more easy; and my tongue,
Which on another's message was employed,
Would gladly speak its own.

Cleo. Hold, Dolabella.

First tell me, were you chosen by my lord,
Or sought you this employment?

Dol. He picked me out, and, as his bosom-
friend,

He charged me with his words.

Cleo. The message then

I know was tender, and each accent smooth,
To mollify that rugged word 'Depart!'

Dol. Oh! you mistake: he chose the harshest words:

With fiery eyes, and with contracted brows,
He coined his face in the severest stamp,
And fury shook his fabric like an earthquake:
He heaved for vent, and burst, like bellowing
Etna,

In sounds scarce human, 'Hence, away for ever!
"Let her begone, the blot of my renown,
"And bane of all my hopes!

[All the time of this speech Cleopatra seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.

'Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce: she'll poison to the cen

Char. Help! chafe her temples, Iras.

Iras. Bend, bend her forward quickly. Char. Heaven be praised,

She comes again!

Cleo, Oh, let him not reproach me!

Why have you brought me back to this loathed being,

The abode of falsehood, violated vows,
And injured love! For pity let me go;
For, if there be a place of long repose,
I am 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! un-
kind!

Dol. Believe me 'tis against myself I speak ;

[Kneeling. That sure deserves belief. I injured him; My friend ne'er spoke these words. Oh! had

you seen

How often he came back, and every time
With something more obliging and more kind
To add to what he said; what dear farewells,
How almost vanquished by his love he parted,
And leaned to what unwillingly he left:
I, traitor as I was, for love of you,

(But what can you not do, who made me false !) I forged that lie, for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished, criminal.

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

Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty,
I have contributed, and too much love
Has made me guilty too.

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

To call back fleeting love by jealousy;
But it would not last! Oh! rather let me lose,
Than so ignobly trifle with, his heart.

Dol. I find your breast fenced round from hu-
man reach,

Transparent as a rock of solid crystal,
Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my
friend!

What endless treasure hast thou thrown away,
And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean
Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather
thence!

Cleo. Could you not beg

An hour's admittance to his private ear?

Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds,
And yet foreknows no hospitable inn
Is near to succour hunger,
Eats his fill before his painful march,

So would I feed a while my famished eyes
Before we part, for I have far to go,
If death be far, and never must return.

VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, behind. Vent. From whence you may discover-Oh, sweet, sweet!

[Aside.

Dol. I will, for this reward: [Takes her hand.

-Draw it not back;

'Tis all I e'er will beg.

Vent. They turn upon us.

Oct. What quick eyes has guilt!

Vent. Seem not to have observed them, and

go on.