So many Cæsars, and, like him, ambitious
To tread upon the liberty of Rome:
How fathers killed their sons, or sons their fathers;
Or how the Roman piles on either side
Drew Roman blood, which spent, the prince of
weapons

(The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars, Appoints the tent, on which winged victory Shall make a certain stand: then, how the plains Flowed o'er with blood, and what a cloud of vultures,

And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies,
Attending, when their ready servitors,
The soldiers, from whom the angry gods
Had took all sense of reason and of pity,
Would serve in their own carcasses for a feast;
How Cæsar, with his javelin, forced them on,
That made the least stop, when their angry hands
Were lifted up against some known friend's face;
Then, coming to the body of the army,

He shews the sacred senate, and forbids them
To waste their force upon the common soldier,
(Whom willingly, if e'er he did know pity,
He would have spared)-

Ptol. The reason, Labienus?

Lab. Full well he knows, that in their blood he

was

To pass to empire, and that through their bowels
He must invade the laws of Rome, and give
A period to the liberty o' th' world.
Then fell the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini,
The famed Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelli,
Names, next to Pompey's, most renowned on
earth.

The nobles, and the commons, lay together,
And Pontic, Punic, and Assyrian blood,
Made up one crimson lake: Which Pompey see-
ing,

And that his, and the fate of Rome, had left him,
Standing upon the rampier of his camp,
Though scorning all that could fall on himself,
He pities them, whose fortunes are embarked
In his unlucky quarrel; cries aloud too,
That they should sound retreat, and save them-
selves:

That he desired not so much noble blood
Should be lost in his service, or attend
On his misfortunes: And then, taking horse,
With some few of his friends, he came to Lesbos,
And, with Cornelia, his wife, and sons,

He has touched upon your shore. The king of

Parthia,

Famous in his defeature of the Crassi,
Offered him his protection; but Pompey,
Relying on his benefits, and your faith,
Hath chosen Egypt for his sanctuary,
'Till he may recollect his scattered powers,
And try a second day. Now, Ptolomy,
Though he appear not like that glorious thing,
That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws
To conquered nations, and made crowns his gift,
(As this of yours, your noble father took
From his victorious hand, and you still wear it
At his devotion) to do you more honour
In his declined estate, as the straightest pine

In a full grove of his yet-flourishing friends, He flies to you for succour, and expects The entertainment of your father's friend, And guardian to yourself.

Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune,
As much as if the crown I wear (his gift)
Were ravished from me, is a holy truth,
Our gods can witness for me: Yet, being young,
And not a free disposer of myself,
Let not a few hours, borrowed for advice,
Beget suspicion of unthankfulness,
Which, next to hell, I hate. Pray you retire,
And take a little rest; and let his wounds
Be with that care attended, as they were
Carved on my flesh. Good Labienus, think
The little respite I desire shall be
Wholly employed to find the readiest way
To do great Pompey service.

Lab. May the gods,
As you intend, protect you!
Ptol. Sit, sit all;

[Exit.

It is my pleasure. Your advice, and freely.
Achor. A short deliberation in this,
May serve to give you counsel. To be honest,
Religious, and thankful, in themselves
Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish
Or gloss in the persuader; your kept faith,
Though Pompey never rise to th' height he's
fallen from,

Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion
Is, still committing it to graver censure,
You pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard
Of all
you can call
yours.
Ptol. What's yours, Photinus?

Pho. Achoreus, great Ptolomy, hath counsel-
led,

Like a religious and honest man,
Worthy the honour that he justly holds
In being priest to Isis. But, alas,
What in a man, sequestered from the world,
Or in a private person, is preferred,
No policy allows of in a king:

To be or just, or thankful, makes kings guilty; And faith, though praised, is punished, that supports

Such as good fate forsakes: Join with the gods,
Observe the man they favour, leave the wretched;
The stars are not more distant from the earth,
Than profit is from honesty; all the power,
Prerogative, and greatness of a prince
Are lost, if he descend once but to steer
His course, as what's right guides him: Let him
leave

The sceptre, that strives only to be good,
Since kingdoms are maintained by force and blood.
Achor. Oh, wicked!

Ptol. Peace!-Go on.

At least, defend them from the Roman gripe;
What was not Pompey's, while the wars endured,
The conqueror will not challenge. By all the world
Forsaken and despised, your gentle guardian,
His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of
What nation he shall fall with; and, pursued
By their pale ghosts, slain in this civil war,
He flies not Cæsar only, but the senate,
Of which the greater part have cloyed the hunger
Of sharp Pharsalian fowl; he flies the nations,
That he drew to his quarrel, whose estates
Are sunk in his; and, in no place received,
Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruined.
And Ptolomy, things considered, justly may
Complain of Pompey: Wherefore should he stain
Our Egypt with the spots of civil war,
Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile,
Doubted of Cæsar? Wherefore should he draw
His loss and overthrow upon our heads,
Or chuse this place to suffer in? Already
We have offended Cæsar, in our wishes,
And no way left us to redeem his favour
But by the head of Pompey.

But we must follow where his fortune leads us :
All provident princes measure their intents
According to their power, and so dispose them.
And think'st thou, Ptolomy, that thou canst prop
His ruins, under whom sad Rome now suffers,
Or tempt the conqueror's force when 'tis con-
firmed?

Shall we, that in the battle sat as peuters,
Serve him, that's overcome? No, no, he's lost.
And though 'tis noble to a sinking friend
To lend a helping hand, while there is hope
He may recover, thy part not engaged:
Though one most dear, when all his hopes are
dead,

To drown him, set thy foot upon his head.
Achor. Most execrable counsel !

Achil. To be followed;

'Tis for the kingdom's safety.

Ptol. We give up

Our absolute power to thee: Dispose of it As reason shall direct thee.

Apol. Did you tell her

O' th' sports I have prepared to entertain her?
She was used to take delight, with her fair hand
To angle in the Nile, where the glad fish,
As if they knew who 'twas sought to deceive them,
Contended to be taken: Other times,
To strike the stag, who, wounded by her arrows,
Forgot his tears in death, and, kneeling, thanks her
To his last gasp; then prouder of his fate,
Than if, with garlands crowned, he had been chosen
To fall a sacrifice before the altar

Of the virgin huntress. The king, nor great Photinus,

Forbid her any pleasure; and the circuit,
In which she is confined, gladly affords
Variety of pastimes, which I would
Encrease with my best service.

Eros. Oh, but the thought

That she, that was born free, and to dispense
Restraint or liberty to others, should be
At the devotion of her brother, (whom
She only knows her equal) makes this place,
In which she lives, though stored with all delights,
A loathsome dungeon to her.

Apol. Yet, howe'er

She shall interpret it, I'll not be wanting
To do my best to serve her: I've prepared
Choice music near her cabinet, and composed
Some few lines, set unto a solemn time,
In the praise of imprisonment. Begin, boy.

THE SONG.

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air :
Even in shadows you are fair.
Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.
Though your body be confined,

And soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found, Look out nobly then, und dare Even the fetters, that you wear.

Enter CLEOPATRA.

Cleo. But that we are assured this tastes of duty And love in you, my guardian, and desire In you, my sister, and the rest, to please us, We should receive this as a saucy rudeness, Offered our private thoughts. But your intents Are to delight us: Alas, you wash an Ethiop! Can Cleopatra, while she does remember Whose daughter she is, and whose sister (oh, I suffer in the name!) and that, in justice, There is no place in Egypt, where I stand, But that the tributary earth is proud To kiss the foot of her, that is her queen ;

Can she, I say, that is all this, e'er relish
Of comfort or delight, while base Photinus,
Bondman Achillas, and all other monsters,
That reign o'er Ptolomy, make that a court,
Where they reside; and this, where I, a prison?
But there's a Rome, a senate, and a Cæsar,
Though the great Pompey lean to Ptolomy,
May think of Cleopatra.

Apol. Pompey, madam—

Cleo. What of him? Speak! If ill, Apollodorus, It is my happiness; and, for thy news,

Receive a favour, kings have kneeled in vain for, And kiss my hand.

Apol. He's lost.

Cleo. Speak it again!

And let your excellency propound a means,
In which I may but give the least assistance,
That may restore you to that you were born to,
Though it call on the anger of the king,
Or, what's more deadly, all his minion
Photinus can do to me, I, unmoved,
Offer my throat to serve you; ever provided,
It bear some probable show to be effected:
To lose myself upon no ground were madness,
Not loyal duty.

Cleo. Stand off!-To thee alone,

I will discover what I dare not trust

My sister with. Cæsar is amorous,

And taken more with the title of a queen,
Than feature or proportion; he loved Eunoe,

By the all-conquering Cæsar.

Cleo. Whither bends he?

No other object to inflame his blood,

But that her husband was a king; on both
He did bestow rich presents: Shall I, then,
That, with a princely birth, bring beauty with me,
That know to prize myself at mine own rate,
Despair his favour? Art thou mine?

Apol. I am.

Cleo. I have found out a way shall bring me to him,

Spite of Photinus' watches. If I prosper,
As I am confident I shall, expect

Things greater than thy wishes.-Though I pur

chase

His grace with loss of my virginity,

It skills not, if it bring home majesty. [Exeunt.

Think not she's bound to love him too that's barbarous.

Why did not I, if this be meritorious,
And binds the king unto me, and his bounties,
Strike this rude stroke? I'll tell thee, thou poor
Roman;

It was a sacred head, I durst not heave at,
Not heave a thought.
Sept. It was?

Achil. I'll tell thee truly,

And, if thou ever yet heardst tell of honour,
I'll make thee blush: it was thy general's;
That man's, that fed thee once, that man's that
bred thee;

The air thou breath'dst was his, the fire that warmed thee,

From his care kindled ever! Nay, I'll shew

A fair and noble enemy. Didst thou hate him, And for thy love to Cæsar sought his ruin? Armed, in the red Pharsalian fields, Septimius, Where killing was in grace, and wounds were glorious,

Where kings were fair competitors for honour, Thou shouldst have come up to him, there have fought him,

There, sword to sword.

Sept. I killed him on commandment,

If kings commands be fair, when you all fainted, When none of you durst look

Achil. On deeds so barbarous.

What hast thou got?

Sept. The king's love, and his bounty, The honour of the service; which though you rail at,

Or a thousand envious souls fling their foams on me,

Will dignify the cause, and make me glorious; And I shall live

Achil. A miserable villain. What reputation and reward belongs to it, Thus, with the head, I seize on, and make mine: And be not impudent to ask me why, sirrah, Nor bold to stay; read in mine eyes the reason! The shame and obloquy I leave thine own; Inherit those rewards; they are fitter for thee. Your oil's spent, and your snuff stinks: Go out basely!

Sept. The king will yet consider.

[Exit.

Enter PTOLOMY, ACHOREUS, and PHOTINUS. Achil. Here he comes.

Achor. Yet, if it be undone, hear me, great sir!

If this inhuman stroke be yet unstrucken,
If that adored head be not yet severed
From the most noble body, weigh the miseries,
The desolations, that this great eclipse works.
You are young, be provident; fix not your em-
pire

Upon the tomb of him will shake all Egypt; Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand spirits,

Great as himself, in every hand a thunder; Destructions darting from their looks, and sor

rows,

That easy women's eyes shall never empty.
Pho. You have done well; and 'tis done. See
Achillas,

And in his hand the head.

Ptol. Stay; come no nearer !

Methinks I feel the very earth shake under me!
I do remember him; he was my guardian,
Appointed by the senate to preserve me.
What a full majesty sits in his face yet!

Pho. The king is troubled.-Be not frighted,
sir;

Be not abused with fears: His death was necessary,

If you consider, sir, most necessary,
Not to be missed: And humbly thank great Isis,
He came so opportunely to your hands.
Pity must now give place to rules of safety.

Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar. From kingly Ptolomy I bring this present, The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour, The goal and mark of high ambitious honour, Before, thy victory had no name, Cæsar, Thy travel and thy loss of blood no recompence; Thou dream'dst of being worthy, and of war, And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers: Here they take life: here they inherit honour, Grow fixed, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. Take it, and look upon thy humble servant, With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolomy, That offers with this head, most mighty Cæsar, What thou wouldst once have given for❜t, all Egypt.

Achil. Nor do not question it, most royal con-
queror,

Nor disesteem the benefit, that meets thee,
Because 'tis easily got; it comes the safer:
Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Cæsar,
Though he opposed no strength of swords to win
this,

Nor laboured through no showers of darts and lances,

Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly,
An inward war: He was his grandsire's guest,
Friend to his father, and, when he was expelled
And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand,
And had none left him to restore his honour,
No hope to find a friend in such a misery,
Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune,
Strengthened, and cherished it, and set it right
again :
This was a love to Cæsar.

Sce. Give me hate, gods!

Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fallen upon him, what it had been then; If thine own sword had touched his throat, what that way!

He was thy son-in-law; there to be tainted Had been most terrible! Let the worst be rendered,

We have deserved for keeping thy hands inno

cent.

Casar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! see, captains,

The head of godlike Pompey!

Sce. He was basely ruined;

But let the gods be grieved, that suffered it,