SCENE I.-The Temple of Isis.

SERAPION and MYRIS, Priests of Isis, discovered.

Ser. Portents and prodigies are grown so fre-
quent,

That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile
Flowed, ere the wonted season, with a torrent
So unexpected, and so wond'rous fierce,
That the wild deluge overtook the haste
Even of the hinds, that watched it. Men and
beasts

Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew
On the utmost margin of the water-mark;
Then with so swift an ebb the flood drove back-
ward,

It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:
Here monstrous phoca panted on the shore;
Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails,
Lay lashing the departing waves; hard by them
Sea-horses, floundering in the slimy mud,
Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about
them.

Enter ALEXAS behind them.

Myr. Avert these omens, Heaven!
Ser. Last night, between the hours of twelve
and one,

In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked,
A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,
Shook all the dome; the doors around me clapt;
The iron wicket, that defends the vault,
Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,
Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead:
From out each monument, in order placed,
An armed ghost starts up; the boy-king last
Reared his inglorious head: a peal of groans
Then followed, and a lamentable voice
Cried,Egypt is no more." My blood ran back,
My shaking knees against each other knocked,
On the cold pavement down I fell entranced,
And so unfinished left the horrid scene!

Alex. And dreamt you this, or did invent the story, [Shewing himself. To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up betimes in fear of priesthood? Ser. My lord, I saw you not,

Nor meant my words should reach your ears;

but what

I uttered was most true.

Alex. A foolish dream,

Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts
And holy luxury.

Ser. I know my duty:

This goes no farther.

Aler. 'Tis not fit it should,

Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern from yon hills the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening, like a storm.

Just breaking on our heads.

Ser. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony, But in their servile hearts they own Octavius. Myr. Why, then, does Antony dream out his hours,

And tempts not fortune for a noble day,
Which might redeem what Actium lost?
Alex. He thinks 'tis past recovery.
Ser. Yet the foe

Seems not to press the siege.

Alex. Oh, there's the wonder. Mecenas and Agrippa, who can most With Cæsar, are his foes; his wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge now seeks his ruin; Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

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

Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra,
But here in Isis' temple lives retired,
And makes his heart a prey to black despair.
Alex. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes,
by absence,

To cure his mind of love.

Ser. If he be vanquished,

Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be
A Roman province, and our plenteous harvests
Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil.
While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria
Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat),
And Fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,
Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

Aler. Had my wish, these tyrants of all na

ture,

Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish, perish,
Each by the other's sword; but since our will
Is lamely followed by our power, we must
Depend on one, with him to rise or fall.

Ser. How stands the queen affected?
Aler. Oh, she doats,

She doats, Serapion, on this vanquished mao,
And winds herself about his mighty rains,
Whom, would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,
This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands,
She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-
This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,
And makes me use all means to keep him here,
Whom I could wish divided from her arms
Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know
The state of things; no more of your ill omens
And black prognostics; labour to confirm
The people's hearts.

Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a gentleman of ANTONY'S.

Ser. These Romans will o'erhear us. But who's that stranger? by his warlike port, His fierce demeanor, and erected look,

8

He is of no vulgar note.

Aler. Oh, 'tis Ventidius,

Our emperor's great lieutenant in the cast, Who first shewed Rome, that Parthia could be conquered.

When Antony returned from Syria last,

He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers. Ser. You seem to know him well.

Aler. Too well. I saw him in Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony. A mortal foe he was to us and Egypt; But let me witness to the worth I hate : A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave; He ne'er was of his pleasures, but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes, I know not what, of ill To our affairs. Withdraw, to mark him better, And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work.

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

Vent. Not see him, say you? I say I must and will.'

Gent. He has commanded,

On pain of death, none should approach his pre

Of any thing but thought; or if he talks,
'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving;
Then he defies the world, and bids it pass;
Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud
The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth
Into a scornful smile, and cries, Take all!
The world's not worth my care.'

Vent. Just, just his nature.
Virtue's his path, but sometimes 'tis too narrow
For his vast soul, and then he starts out wide,
And bounds into a vice, that bears him far
From his first course, and plunges him in ills:
But when his danger makes him find his 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 come forward. Alex. You have your full instructions; now ad

Live Antony, and Cleopatra live!
Be this the general voice sent up to heaven,
And every public place repeat this echo.
Vent. Fine pageantry!

[Aside.

Ser. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreathe your posts,

And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priest

Do present sacrifice, pour out the wine,
And call the gods to join with you in gladness.
Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this ge-
neral joy!

Can they be friends to 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.

Aler. A love, which knows no bounds to An

tony,

Would mark the day with honours, when all
Heaven

Laboured for him, when each propitious star
Stood wakeful in his orb to watch that hour,
And shed his better influence: her own birth-day
Our queen neglected, like a vulgar fate,
That passed obscurely by.

Vent. Would it had slept
Divided far from his, till some remote
And future age had called it out, to ruin
Some other prince, not him!

Aler. Your emperor,

Though grown unkind, would be more gentle than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well. Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest?

He knows him not his executioner.

Oh! she has decked his ruin with her love,
Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,
And made perdition pleasing: she has left him
The blank of what he was;

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him.
Can any Roman see and know him now,
Thus altered, from the lord of half mankind,
Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy,
Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,
And crampt within a corner of the world?
Oh, Antony!

Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends!
Bounteous as nature, next to nature's God!
Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst
thou give them,

As bounty were thy being. Rough in battle,
As the first Romans when they went to war,
Yet, after victory, more pitiful

Than all their praying virgins left at home!
Alex. Would you could add to those more
shining virtues,
His truth to her, who loves him.

Vent. Would I could not!

But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee? Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived to end her charms.

Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets. You dare not fight for Antony; go pray, And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEX. SER. Re-enter the Gentleman of MARC ANTONY. 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands,

On pain of death, that none presume to stay. 1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other. Vent. Well, I dare: But I'll observe him first, unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll ven[Withdraws.

ture.

Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed mo

tion before he speaks.

Ant. I would be private. Leave me.
Vent. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.
Ant. Will not leave me!

With double pomp of sadness:

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward,

To be trod out by Cæsar?

Vent. [Aside] On my soul

'Tis mournful, wond'rous mournful!
Ant. Count thy gains

Now, Antony; wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.

Vent. [Aside] How sorrow shakes him!
So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.
Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there,
thou shadow of an emperor;
The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth,
Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou art 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 widowed hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,
To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more

on't

Vent. My emperor; the man I love next hea

ven:

If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin: You're all that's good and godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then? Vent. 'Twas too presuming

Το

say I would not; but I dare not leave you; And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you. Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?

For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough,
And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew:

[Weeping. I have not wept this forty years, but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By heaven he weeps! Poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks. Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame, That caused them, full before me.

Vent. I'll do my best.

Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends;

See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine-Nay, fatherVent. Emperor.

Ant. Emperor! why that's the style of vic

tory:

The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so; but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent. I warrant you.

Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh-
Vent. It sits too near you.

Ant. Here, here it lies, a lump of lead by day, And, in my short distracted nightly slumbers, The hag, that rides my dreams!

Vent. Out with it; give it vent.
Ant. Urge not my shame-

I lost a battle.

You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do;
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.
Ant. No, I can kill myself, and so resolve.
Vent. I can die with you too, when time shall
serve;

But fortune calls upon us now to live,
To fight, to conquer.

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.
Vent. No, 'tis you dream; you sleep away
your hours

In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.
Up, up, for honour's sake! twelve legions wait

you,

tidius.

Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but

Ant. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier with inglorious ease; In the full vintage of my flowing honours Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands; Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people crowding to my triumphs, The wish of nations, and the willing world Received me as its pledge of future peace. I was so great, so happy, so beloved, Fate could not ruin me, till I took pains, And worked against my fortune, chid her from me, And turned her loose; yet still she came again. My careless days, and my luxurious nights, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone, Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me. Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you have done, too conscious of your

failings,

And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.
I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your for-

I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile;
'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,
Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's
virtue in them:

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates
Than yon trim bands can buy.
Ant. Where left you them?
Vent. I said in Lower Syria.
Ant. Bring them hither;
There may be life in these.
Vent. They will not come.

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

To double my despair? they are mutinous.
Vent. Most firm and loyal.
Ant. Yet they will not march
To succour me? Oh trifler!
Vent. They petition

You would make haste to head them.
Ant. I'm besieged.

Vent. There's but one way shut up-How came
I hither?

Ant. I will not stir.

Vent. They would perhaps desire A better reason.

Ant. I have never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra,

Ant. What was't they said?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleo

patra,

Why should they fight indeed to make her con

See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance,
And all weighed down by one light worthless

woman!

I think the gods are Antonies, and give,
Like prodigals, this nether world away
To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain inso

lence!

Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor,
Who, under seeming honesty, hath vented
The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall.
Oh that thou wert my equal, great in arms
As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee,
Without a stain to honour!

me:

Vent. You kill may You have done more already, called me traitor. Ant. Art thou not one?

Vent. For shewing you yourself,

Which none else durst have done? But had I been
That name, which I disdain to speak again,
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.
What hindered me to have led my conquering
eagles

To fill Octavia's bands? I could have been
A traitor then, a glorious happy traitor,
And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier;

I have been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false,

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir, Pray kill me: yet you need not; your unkind

ness

Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage: prithee forgive me.
Why didst thou tempt my anger by discovery
Of what I would not hear?

Vent. No prince, but you,
Could merit that sincerity I used ;
Nor durst another man have ventured it:
But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes,
Were sure the chief and best of human race,
Framed in the very pride and boast of nature;
So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, won-
dered

At their own skill, and cried, a lucky hit
Has mended our design! Their envy hindered,
Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,
When heaven would work for ostentation sake,
To copy out again.

Ant. But Cleopatra

Go on, for I can bear it now. Vent. No more.

Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st:

Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word!

May I believe you love me? Speak again. Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and [Embracing him

this.

Thy praises were unjust: but I'll deserve them,
And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt:
Lead me to victory; thou know'st the way.

Vent. And will you leave this-
Ant. Prithee do not curse her,

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

Beyond life, conquest, empire, all but honour: But I will leave her.

Vent. That's my royal master!· And shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier; Thou shalt behold me once again in iron, And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, Come, follow me.' Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! In that word

And mans each part about me. Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me,
That eagerness, with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp: in vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way, in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods,
For such another honour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier;

Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long Once more to meet our foes, that thou and I, Like time and death, marching before our troops, May taste fate to them, mow them out a pas