Antonius

A Diʃcourʃe of Life and Death. Written in French by Ph. Mornay. ANTONIUS, A Tragœdie written alʃo in French by Ro. Garnier. Both done in Engliʃh by the Counteβe of Pembroke at london, Printed for William Ponʃonby.1592.

THE ARGUMENT

After the ouerthrowe of Brutus and Caʃsius, the libertie of Rome being now vtterly oppreʃʃed, and the Empire ʃetled in the hands of Octauius Cæʃar and Marcus Antonius, (who for knitting a straiter bonde of amitie betweene them, had taken to wife Octauia the ʃiʃter of Cæʃar) Antonius undertooke a iourney againʃt the Parthians,
with intent to regaine on them the honor wonne by them from the Romains, at the disʃomfiture and ʃlaughter of Craʃʃus. But comming in his iourney into Siria, the places renewed in his remembrance the long intermitted loue of Cleopatra Queene of Aegipt: who before time had both in Cilicia and at Alexandria, entertained him with all the exquiʃite delightes and ʃumptuous pleaʃures, which a great Prince and voluptuous Louer could to the uttermoʃt desire. Whereupon omitting his enterprice, he made his returne to Alexandria, againe falling to his former loues, without any regard of his vertuous wife Octauia, by whom nevertheles he had excellent Children. This occaʃion Octauius tooke of taking armes againʃt him: and preparing a mighty fleet, encountred him at Actium, who alʃo had aʃʃembled to that place a great number of Gallies of his own, beʃides 60. which Cleopatra brought with her from Aegipt. But at the very beginning of the battell Cleopatra with all her Gallies betooke her to flight, which Antony ʃeeing could not but follow; by his departure leauing to Octauius the greateʃt victorye which in any Sea Battell hath beene heard off. Which he not negligent to purʃue, followes them the next spring, and beʃiedgeth them within Alexandria, where Antony finding all that he truʃted to faile him, beginneth to growe iealouʃe and to suspect Cleopatra. She thereupon enclosed her ʃelfe with two of her women in a monument ʃhe had before cauʃed to be built, thence ʃends him woord ʃhe was dead: which he beleeuing for truth, gaue himʃelfe with his Swoord a deadly wound: but died not until a messenger came from Cleopatra to have him brought to her to the tombe. Which ʃhe not daring to open leaʃt ʃhe ʃhould be made a priʃoner to the Romaines, & carried in Cæsars triumph, cast downe a corde from an high window, by the which (her women helping her) ʃhe truʃʃed up Antonius halfe dead, and ʃo got him into the monument. The Stage ʃuppoʃed Alexandria: the chorus first Egiptians, and after Romane Souldiors. The Hiʃtorie to be read at large in Plutarch in the life of Antonius.

The Actors.

Antonius.

Cleopatra.

Eras and Charmion } Cleopatra’s women.

Philoʃtratus a Philoʃopher.

Lucilius.

Diomede Secretary to Cleopatra.

Octauius Cæʃar.

Agrippa.

Euphron, teacher of Cleopatras children.

Children of Cleopatra.

Dircetus the Messenger.

Antonius.

Since cruell Heau’ns

againʃt me obʃtinate,

Since all miʃhappes

of the round engin doo

Conʃpire my harme:

ʃince men, ʃince powers diuine

Aire, earth, and Sea

are all iniurious:

And that my Queene her ʃelf, in whome I liu’d,

The Idoll of my hart, doth me purʃue;

It’s meete I dye. For her haue I forgone

My Country, Cæʃar vnto warre provok’d

(For iuʃt reuenge of Siʃters wrong, my wife,

Who mou’de my Queene (ay me!) to iealouʃie)

For loue of her, in her allurements caught

Abandon’d life, I honor haue deʃpiʃde,

Diʃdain’d my freends, and of the ʃtatelye Rome

Deʃpoilde the Empire of her beʃt attire,

Contemn’d that power that made me ʃo much fear’d,

A ʃlaue become vnto her feeble face.

O cruell, traitres, woman moʃt vnkinde,

Thou doʃt, forʃworne, my loue and life betraie:

And giv’ʃt me vp to ragefull enemie,

Which ʃoone (ô foole!) will plague thy periurye.

Yelded Peluʃium on this countries shore,

Yelded thou haʃt my Shippes and men of warre,

That nought remaines (ʃo deʃtitute am I)

But theʃe ʃame armes which on my back I weare.

Thou ʃhould’ʃt have had them too, and me vnarm’de

Yeelded to Cæʃar naked of defence.

Which while I beare let Cæʃar neuer thinke

Triumph of me ʃhall his proud chariot grace

Not think with me his glory to adorne,

On me aliue to vʃe his victorie.

Thou only Cleopatra triumph haʃt,

Thou only haʃt my freedome ʃeruile made,

Thou only haʃt me vanquisht: not by force

(For forste I cannot be) but by sweete baites

Of thy eyes graces, which did gaine so fast

Upon my libertie, that nought remain’d.

None els henceforth, but thou my dearest Queene,

Shall glorie in commaunding Antonie.

Haue Cæʃar fortune and the Gods his freends,

To him haue Ioue and fatall ʃiʃters giuen

The Scepter of the earth: he neuer ʃhall

Subiect my life to his obedience.

But when that death, my glad refuge, ʃhall haue

Bounded the course of my vnʃtedfaʃt life,

And froʃen corps under a marble colde

Within tombes boʃome widdowe of my ʃoule:

Then at his will let him it ʃubiect make:

Then what he will let Cæʃar doo with me:

Make me limme after limme be rent: make me

My buriall take in ʃides of Thracian wolfe.

Poore Antonie! alas what was the day,

The daies of loʃʃe that gained thee thy loue!

Wretch Antony! ʃince then Mægaera pale

With Snakie haires enchain’d thy miʃerie.

The fire thee burnt was neuer Cupids fire

(For Cupid beares not ʃuch a mortall brand)

It was ʃome furies torch, Orestes torche,

Which ʃometimes burnt his mother-murdering ʃoule

(When wandring madde, rage boiling in his bloud,

He fled his fault which folow’d as he fled)

Kindled within his bones by ʃhadow pale

Of mother ʃlaine return’d from Stygian lake.

Antony, poore Antony! since that daie

Thy olde good hap did farre from thee retire.

Thy vertue dead: thy glorie made aliue

So ofte by martiall deeds is gone in ʃmoke:

Since then the Baies ʃo well thy forehead knewe

To Venus mirtles yeelded haue their place:

Trumpets to pipes: field tents to courtly bowers:

Launces and Pikes to daunces and to feaʃtes.

Since then, ô wretch! in stead of bloudy warres

Thou ʃhouldʃt have made vpon the Parthian Kings

For Romain honor filde by Crassus foile,

Thou threw’ʃt thy Curiace off, and fearfull healme,

With coward courage unto Aegipts Queene

In haste to runne, about her necke to hang

Languishing in her armes thy Idoll made:

In summe, given up to Cleopatras eies.

Thou breakest at length from thence, as one encharm’d

Breakes from th’enchaunter that him ʃtrongly helde.

For thy first reaʃon (ʃpoyling of their force

The poiʃned cuppes of thy faire Sorceres)

Recur’d thy ʃprite: and then on euery ʃide

Thou mad’ʃt again the earth with Souldioursʃwarme.

All Aʃia hidde: Euphrates bankes do tremble

To ʃee at once ʃo many Komanes there

Breath horror, rage, and with a threatning eye

In mighty ʃquadrons croʃʃe his ʃwelling ʃtreames.

Nought ʃeene but horʃe, and fier ʃparkling armes:

Nought heard but hideous noiʃe of muttring troupes.

The Parth, the Mede, abandoning their goods

Hide them for feare in hilles of Hircanie,

Redoubting thee. Then willing to beʃiege

The great Phraate head of Media,

Thou campedʃt at her walles with vaine aʃʃault,

Thy engines fit (miʃhap!) not thither brought.

Solong thou ʃtai’ʃt, ʃo long thou dooʃt thee reʃt,

So long thy loue with ʃuch things nouriʃhed

Reframes, reformes it ʃelfe and ʃtealingly

Retakes his force and rebecomes more great.

For of thy Queene the lookes, the grace, the woords,

Sweetenes, alurements, amourous delights,

Entred againe thy ʃoule, and day and night,

In watch, in ʃleepe, her Image follow’d thee:

Not dreaming but of her, repenting ʃtill

That thou for warre hadʃt ʃuch a Goddes left.

Thou car’ʃt no more for Parth, nor Parthian bow,

Sallies, assaults, encounters, ʃhocks, alarmes,

For diches, rampiers, wards, entrenched grounds:

Thy only care is ʃight of Nilus ʃtreames,

Sight of that face whoʃe gilefull ʃemblant doth

(Wandring in thee) infect thy tainted hart.

Her abʃence thee beʃottes: each hower, each hower

Of ʃtaie, to thee impacient ʃeemes an age.

Enough of conqueʃt, praiʃe thou deem’ʃt enough,

If ʃoone enough the briʃtled fieldes thou ʃee

Of fruit-full Ægipt, and the ʃtranger floud

Thy Queenes faire eyes (another Pharos) lights.

Returned loe, diʃhonored, deʃpiʃde,

In wanton loue a woman thee miʃleades

Sunke in foule ʃinke: meane while reʃpecting nought

Thy wife Octauia and her tender babes,

Of whome the long contempt against thee whets

The ʃword of Cæsar now thy Lord become.

Lost thy great Empire, all those goodly townes

Reuerenc’d thy name as rebells now thee leaue:

Rise against thee, and to the enʃignes flocke

Of conqu’ring Cæʃar, who enwalles thee round

Cag’d in thy holde, ʃcarʃe maiʃter of thy ʃelfe,

Late maiʃter of ʃo many nations.

Yet, yet, which is of griefe extreameʃt grief,

Which is yet of miʃchiefe higheʃt miʃchiefe,

It’s Cleopatra alas! alas, it’s ʃhe,

It’s ʃhe augments the torment of thy paine,

Betraies thy loue, thy life alas! betraies,

Cæʃar to pleaʃe, whoʃe grace ʃhe ʃeekes to gaine:

With thought her Crowne to ʃaue, and fortune make

Onely thy foe which common ought haue beene.

If her I alwaies lov’d, and the firʃt flame

Of her heart-killing loue ʃhall burne me laʃt:

Iustly complaine I ʃhe diʃloyall is,

Nor conʃtant is, euen as I conʃtant am,

To comfort my miʃhap, deʃpiʃing me

No more, then when the heauens fauour’d me.

But ah! by nature women wau’ring are,

Each moment changing and rechanging mindes.

Vnwiʃe, who blinde in them, thinkes loyaltie

Euer to finde in beauties company.

Chorus.

The boyling tempeʃt ʃtill

Makes not Sea waters fome:

Nor ʃtill the Northern blaʃt

Diʃquiets quiet ʃtreames:

Nor who his cheʃt to fill

Sayles to the morning beames,

On waves winde toʃʃeth faʃt

Still kepes his Ship from home.

Nor Ioue still downe doth caʃt

Inflam’d with bloudie ire

On man, on tree, on hill,

His darts of thundring fire:

Nor ʃtill the heat doth last

On face of parched plaine:

Nor wrinkled colde doth ʃtill

On frozen furrowes raigne.

But ʃtill as long as we

In this low world remaine,

Miʃhapps our dayly mates

Our liues do entertaine:

And woes which beare no dates

Still pearch vpon our heads,

None go, but ʃtreight will be

Some greater in their Steads.

Nature made vs not free

When firʃt she made vs liue:

When we began to be,

To be began our woe:

Which growing euermore

As dying life dooth growe,

Do more and more vs greeue,

And tire vs more and more.

No ʃtay in fading ʃtates,

For more to height they retch,

Their fellow miʃeries.

The more to height do ʃtretch.

They clinge euen to the crowne,

And threatning furious wiʃe

From tirannizing pates

Do often pull it downe.

In vaine on waues vntride

To ʃhunne them go we ʃhould,

To Scythes and Maʃʃagetes

Who neare the Pole reʃide:

In vaine to boiling ʃandes

Which Phæbus battry beates,

For with vs ʃtill they would

Cut ʃeas and compaʃʃe landes.

The darknes no more ʃure

To ioyne with heauy night:

The light which guildes the dayes

To follow Titan pure:

No more the ʃhadow light

The body to enʃue:

Then wretchednes alwaies

Vs wretches to purʃue.

O bleʃt who never breath’d,

Or whome with pittie mou’de,

Death from his cradle reau’de,

And ʃwadled in his graue:

And bleʃʃed alʃo he

) As curʃe may bleʃsing haue)

Who low and living free

No princes charge hath prou’de.

By ʃtealing ʃacred fire

Prometheus then vnwiʃe,

Prouoking Gods to ire,

The heape of ills did ʃturre,

And ʃicknes pale and colde

Our ende which onward ʃpurre,

To plague our hands too bolde

To filch the wealth of Skies.

In heauens hate ʃince then

Of ill with ill enchain’d

We race of mortall men

Full fraught our breaʃts haue borne

And thouʃand thouʃand woes

Our heau’nly ʃoules now thorne,

Which free before from thoʃe

No earthly paβion pain’d.

Warre and warres bitter cheare

Now long time with vs ʃtaie,

And feare of hated foe

Still still encreaʃeth ʃore:

Our harmes worse dayly growe,

Leʃʃe yeʃterday they were

Then now, and will be more

To morow then to day.

Act. 2.

Philoʃtratus.

What horrible furie, what cruell rage,

O Ægipt ʃo extremely thee torments?

Haʃt thou the Gods ʃo angred by thy fault?

Haʃt thou againʃt them ʃome ʃuch crime conceiu’d,

That their engrained hand lift vp in threats

They ʃhould deʃire in thy hart bloud to bathe?

And that their burning wrath which nought can quench,

Should pittiles on vs ʃtill lighten downe?

We are not hew’n out of the monʃt’rous maʃʃe

Of Giantes thoʃe, which heauens wrack conʃpir’d:

Ixions race, falʃe prater of his loues:

Nor yet of him who fained lightnings found:

Nor cruell Tantalus, nor bloudy Atreus,

Whose curʃed banquet for Thyestes plague

Made the beholding Sunne for horrour turne

His backe, and backward from his courʃe returne:

And haʃtning his wing-footed horʃes race

Plunge him in ʃea for ʃhame to hide his face:

While ʃulleine night vpon the wondring world

For mid-daies light her ʃtarrie mantle caʃt,

But what we be, what euer wickednes

By vs is done, Alas! with what more plagues,

More eager torments could the Gods declare

To heauen and earth that vs they hatefull holde?

With Souldiors, ʃtrangers, horrible in armes

Our land is hidde, our people drown’d in teares.

But terror here and horror, nought is ʃeene:

And preʃent death prizing our life each hower.

Hard at our ports and at our porches waites

Our conquering foe: harts faile vs, hopes are dead:

Our Queene laments: and this great Emperour

Sometime (would now they did) whom worlds did feare,

Abandoned, betraid, now mindes no more

But from his euils by haʃt’ned death to paʃʃe.

Come you poore people tir’de with ceaʃles plaints

With teares and ʃighes make mournfull ʃacrifice

On Isis altars: not our ʃelues to ʃaue,

But ʃoften Cæʃar and him pitious make

To vs, his pray: that ʃo his lenitie

May change our death into captiuitie.

Strange are the euils the fates on vs haue brought,

O but alas! how farre more ʃtrange the cauʃe!

Loue, loue (alas, who ever would have thought?)

Hath loʃt this Realme inflamed with his fire.

Loue, playing loue, which men ʃay kindles not

But in ʃoft harts, hath aʃhes made our townes.

And his ʃweet ʃhafts, with whoʃe ʃhot none are kill’d,

Which vlcer not, with deaths our lands haue fill’d.

Such was the bloudie, murdring, helliʃh loue

Poʃʃeʃt thy hart faire falʃe gueʃt Priams Sonne,

Fi’ring a brand which after made to burne

The Troian towers by Græcians ruinate.

By this loue, Priam, Hector, Troilus,

Memnon, Deiphobus, Glaucus, thouʃands mo,

Whome redd Scamanders armor clogged streames

Roll’d into Seas, before their dates are dead.

So plaguie he, ʃo many tempeʃts raiʃeth,

So murdring he, ʃo many Cities raiʃeth,

When inʃolent, blinde, lawles, orderles,

With madd delight our ʃence he entertaines.

All knowing Gods our wracks did us foretell

By ʃignes in earth, by ʃignes in ʃtarry Sphæres:

Which ʃhould haue mou’d vs, had not deʃtinie

With too ʃtrong hand warped our miʃerie.

The Comets flaming through the ʃcat’red clouds

With fiery beames, most like vnbroaded haires:

The fearefull dragon whiʃtling at the bankes,

And holie Apis ceaʃeles bellowing

(As neuer erʃt) and ʃhedding endles teares:

Bloud raining downe from heav’n in unknown ʃhowers:

Our Gods darke faces ouercaʃt with woe,

And dead mens Ghoʃts appearing in the night.

Yea euen this night while all the Cittie ʃtoode

Oppreʃt with terror, horror, ʃeruile feare,

Deepe ʃilence ouer all: the ʃounds were heard

Of diuerʃe ʃongs, and diuers inʃtruments,

Within the voide of aire: and howling noiʃe,

Such as madde Bacchus prieʃts in Bacchus feaʃts,

On Niʃa make: and (ʃeem’d) the company,

Our Cittie loʃt, went to the enemie.

So we forʃaken both of Gods and men,

So are we in the mercy of our foes:

And we hencefoorth obedient must become

To lawes of them who haue vs ouercome.

Chorus.

Lament we our miʃhaps,

Drowne we with teares our woe:

For Lamentable happes

Lamented eaʃie growe:

And much leʃʃe torment bring

Then when they firʃt did ʃpring.

We want that wofull ʃong,

Wherwith wood-muʃiques Queen

Doth eaʃe her woes, among,

freʃh ʃpringtimes buʃhes greene,

On pleaʃant branche alone

Renewing auntient mone.

We want that monefull ʃounde,

That pratling Progne makes

On fields of Thracian ground,

Or streames of Thracian lakes:

To empt her breʃt of paine

For Itys by her ʃlaine.

Though Halcyons doo still,

Bewailing Ceyx lot,

The Seas with plainings fill

Which his dead limmes haue got,

Not euer other graue

Then tombe of waues to haue:

And though the bird in death

That moʃt Meander loues:

So ʃweetly ʃighes his breath

When death his fury proues,

As almoʃt ʃofts his heart,

And almoʃt blunts his dart:

Yet all the plaints of thoʃe,

Nor all their tearfull larmes,

Cannot content our woes,

Nor ʃerue to waile the harmes,

In ʃoule which we, poore we,

To feele enforced be.

Nor they of Phæbus bredd

In teares can doo ʃo well,

They for their brother ʃhedd,

Who into Padus fell,

Rash guide of chariot cleare

Surueiour of the yeare.

Nor ʃhe whom heau’nly powers

To weping rocke did turne,

Whoʃe teares diʃtill in ʃhowers,

And ʃhew ʃhe yet doth mourne,

Wherewith his toppe to Skies

Mount Sipylus doth riʃe.

Nor weping drops which flowe

From barke of wounded tree,

That Myrrhas ʃhame do ʃhowe

With ours compar’d may be,

To quench her louing fire

Who durʃt embrace her ʃire.

Nor all the howlings made

On Cybels ʃacred hill

By Eunukes of her trade,

Who Atys, Atys still

With doubled cries resound,

Which Echo makes rebound.

Our plaints no limits ʃtay,

Nor more then doo our woes:

Both infinitely ʃtraie

And neither meaʃure knowes

In meaʃure let them plaine:

Who meaʃur’d griefes ʃuʃtaine.

Cleopatra. Eras. Charmion. Diomede.

Cleopatra.

That I haue the betraid, deare Antonie,

My life, my ʃoule, my Sunne? I had ʃuch thought?

That I haue the betraide my Lord, my King?

That I would breake my vowed faith to thee?

Leaue thee? deceiue thee? yeelde thee to the rage

Of mightie foe? I euer had that hart?

Rather sharpe lightning lighten on my head:

Rather may I to deepeʃt miʃchiefe fall:

Rather the opened earth deuower me:

Rather fierce Tigers feed them on my fleʃh:

Rather, ô rather let our Nilus ʃend,

To ʃwallow me quicke, ʃome weeping Crocodile.

And didʃt thou then ʃuppoʃe my royall hart

Had hatcht, thee to enʃnare, a faithles loue?

And changing minde, as Fortune changed cheare,

I would weake thee, to winne the ʃtronger, looʃe?

O wretch! ô caitiue! ô too cruell happe!

And did not I ʃufficient loʃʃe ʃuʃtaine

Looʃing my Realme, looʃing my liberty,

My tender of-ʃpring, and the ioyfull light

Of beamy Sunne, and yet, yet looʃing more

Thee Antony my care, if I looʃe not

What yet remain’d? thy loue alas! thy loue,

More deare then Scepter, children, freedome, light.

So ready I to row in Charons barge,

Shall leeʃe the ioy of dying in thy loue:

So the ʃole comfort of my miʃerie

To haue one tombe with thee is me bereft.

So I in ʃhady plaines ʃhall plaine alone,

Not (as I hop’d) companion of thy mone,

O height of griefe! Eras why with continuall cries

Your griefull harmes doo you exaʃperate?

Torment your ʃelfe with murthering complaints;

Straine your weake breaʃt ʃo oft, ʃo vehemently?

Water with teares this faire alablaʃter?

With ʃorrowes ʃting ʃo many beauties wound?

Come of ʃo many Kings want you the hart

Brauely, ʃtoutly, this tempeʃt to reʃiʃt?

Cl. My eu’lls are wholy vnʃupportable,

No humain force can them withʃtand, but death.

Eras. To him that ʃtriues nought is impoβible.

Cl. In striuing lyes no hope of my mishapps.

Eras. All things do yeelde to force of louely face.

Cl. My face too louely caus’d my wretched caʃe.

My face hath ʃo entrap’d, ʃo caʃt vs downe,

That for his conqueʃt Cæʃar may it thanke,

Cauʃing that Antony one army loʃt

The other wholy did to Cæʃar yeld.

For not induring (ʃo his amourouʃe ʃprite

Was with my beautie fir’de) my ʃhamefull flight,

Soone as he saw from ranke wherein he ʃtoode

In hotteʃt fight, my Gallies making ʃaile:

Forgetfull of his charg (as if his ʃoule

Vnto his Ladies ʃoule had bene enchain’d)

He left his men, who ʃo couragiouʃlie

Did leaue their liues to gaine him victorie.

And careleʃʃe both of fame and armies loʃʃe

My oared Gallies follow’d with his Ships

Companion of my flight, by this baʃe parte

Blaʃting his former flouriʃhing renowne.

Eras. Are you therefore cauʃe of his ouerthrow?

Cl. I am ʃole cauʃe: I did it, only I.

Er. Feare of a woman troubled ʃo his ʃprite?

Cl. Fire of his loue was by my feare enflam’d.

Er. And ʃhould he then to warre haue ledd a Queene?

Cl. Alas! this was not his offence, but mine.

Antony (ay me! who else so braue a chiefe!)

Would not I ʃhould haue taken Seas with him:

But would haue left me fearefull woman farre

From common hazard of the doubtfull warre.

O that I had beleu’d! now, now of Rome

All the great Empire at our beck ʃhould bende.

All ʃhould obey, the vagabonding Scythes,

The feared Germains, back-ʃhooting Parthians,

Wandring Numidians, Brittons farre remoou’d,

And tawny nations ʃcorched with the Sunne.

But I car’d not: ʃo was my ʃoule poʃʃeʃt,

(To my great harme) with burning iealouʃie:

Fearing leaʃt in my absence Antony

Should leauing me retake Octauia.

Char. Such was the rigour of your deʃtinie.

Cl. Such was my errour and obʃtinacie.

Ch. But ʃince Gods would not, could you doe withall?

Cl. Alwaies from Gods good haps, not harms, do fall.

Ch. And haue they not all power on mens affaires?

Cl. They neuer bow ʃo lowe, as worldly cares.

But leaue to mortall men to be diʃpos’d

Freelie on earth what euer mortall is.

If we therin ʃometimes ʃome faultes commit,

We may them not to their high maieʃties,

But to our ʃelues impute; whoʃe paβions

Plunge vs each day in all afflictions.

Wherwith when we our ʃoules do thorned feele,

Flatt’ring our ʃelues we ʃay they deʃt’nies are:

That Gods would haue it ʃo, and that our care

Could not empeach but that it must be ʃo.

Char.Things here belowe are in the heau’ns begot,

Before they be in this our worlde borne:

And neuer can our weaknes turne awry

The ʃtailes courʃe of powerfull deʃtenie.

Nought here force, reaʃon, humaine prouidence,

Holie deuotion, noble bloud preuailes:

And Ioue himʃelfe whoʃe hand doth heauens rule,

Who both to Gods, and men as King commaunds,

Who earth (our firme ʃupport) with plenty ʃtores,

Moues aire and ʃea with twinckling of his eie,

Who all can doe, yet neuer can vndoe

What once hath been by their hard lawes decreed.

When Troian walles, great Neptunes workmanʃhip,

Enuiron’d were with Greekes, and Fortunes whele

Doubtfull ten yeares now to the campe did turne,

And now againe towards the towne return’d:

How many times did force and fury ʃwell

In Hectors veines egging him to the ʃpoile

Of conquer’d foes, which at his blowes did flie,

As fearefull ʃhepe at feared wolues approche:

To ʃaue (in vaine: for why? it would not be)

Pore walles of Troie from aduerʃaries rage,

Who died them in bloud, and caʃt to ground

Heap’d them with bloudie burning carcaʃes.

No, Madame, thinke, that if the ancient crowne

Of your progenitors that Nilus rul’d,

Force take from you; the Gods haue will’d it ʃo,

To whome oft times Princes are odiouʃe.

They haue to euery thing an end ordain’d;

All worldly greatnes by them bounded is:

Some ʃooner, later ʃome, as they thinke beʃt:

None their decree is able to infringe.

But, which is more, to vs diʃaʃtred men

Which ʃubiect are in all things to their will,

Their will is hidd: nor while we liue, we know

How, or how long we muʃt in life remaine.

Yet muʃt we not for that feede on diʃpaire,

And make vs wretched ere we wretched bee:

But alwaies hope the beʃt, euen to the laʃt,

That from our ʃelues the miʃchief may not growe.

Then, Madame, helpe your ʃelfe, leaue of in time

Antonies wracke, leʃt it your wracke procure:

Retire you from him, ʃaue from wrathfull rage

Of angry Cæʃar both your Realme and you.

You see him loʃt, so as your amitie

Vnto his euills can yeeld no more reliefe.

You ʃee him ruin’d, ʃo as your ʃupport

No more hencefourth can him with comfort raiʃe.

With-draw you from the ʃtorme: perʃiʃt not ʃtill

To looʃe your ʃelfe: this royall diademe

Regaine of Cæʃar. Cl. Sooner ʃhining light

Shall leaue the daie, and darknes leaue the night:

Sooner moiʃt currents of tempeʃtuous ʃeas

Shall waue in heauen, and the nightly troopes

Of ʃtarres ʃhall ʃhine within the foming waues,

Then I thee, Antonie, Leaue in deepe diʃtres.

I am with thee, be it thy worthy ʃoule

Lodge in thy breʃt, or from that lodging parte

Croʃʃing the ioyles lake to take hir place

In place prepared for men Demy-gods.

Liue, if thee pleaʃe, if life be lothʃome die:

Dead and aliue, Antonie, thou ʃhalt ʃee

Thy princeʃʃe follow thee, folow, and lament,

Thy wrack, no leʃʃe her owne then was thy weale.

Char. What helps his wrack this euer-laʃting loue?

Cl. Help, or help not, ʃuch muʃt, ʃuch ought I proue.

Char. Ill done to looʃe your ʃelfe, and to no ende.

Cl. How ill thinke you to follow ʃuch a frende?

Char. But this your loue nought mitigates his paine.

Cl. Without this loue I ʃhould be inhumaine.

Char. Inhumaine he, who his owne death purʃues.

Cl. Not inhumaine who miʃeries eʃchues.

Ch. Liue for your ʃonnes. Cl. Nay for their father die.

Cha. Hardhearted mother! Cl. Wife kindhearted I.

Ch. Then will you them depriue of royall right?

Cl. Do I depriue them? no, it’s deʃt’nies might.

Ch. Do you not them depriue of heritage,

That giue them vp to aduerʃaries handes,

A man forʃaken fearing to forʃake,

Whome ʃuch huge numbers hold enuironned?

T’abandon one gainʃt whome the frowning world

Banded with Cæʃar makes conʃpiring warre.

Cl. The leʃʃe ought I to leaue him leʃt of all.

A frend in moʃt diʃtreʃʃe ʃhould moʃt aʃʃiʃt.

If that when Antonie great and glorious

His legions led to drinke Euphrates ʃtreames,

So many Kings in traine redoubting him;

In triumph raiʃ’d as high as highest heaun;

Lord-like diʃpoʃing as him pleaʃed beʃt,

The wealth of Greece, the wealth of Aʃia:

In that faire fortune had I him exchaung’d

For Cæʃar, then, men would haue counted me

Faithles, vnconʃtant, light: but now the ʃtorme,

And bluʃtring tempeʃt driuing on his face,

Readie to drowne, Alas! what would they ʃaie?

What would himʃelfe in Plutos manʃion ʃaie?

If I, whome alwaies more then life he lou’de,

If I, who am his heart, who was his hope,

Leaue him, forʃake him (and perhaps in vaine^?)

Weakly to pleaʃe who him hath ouerthrowne?

Not light, vnconʃtant, faithleʃʃe ʃhould I be,

But vile, forʃworne, of treachrous cruelty.

Ch. Crueltie to ʃhunne, you ʃelfe-cruell are:

Cl. Selfe-cruell him from cruelty to ʃpare.

Ch, Our firʃt affection to ourʃelfe is due.

Cl. He is my ʃelfe. Ch. Next it extendes vnto

Our children, frends, and to our countrie ʃoile.

And you for ʃome reʃpect of wiuely loue,

(Albee ʃcarce wiuelie) looʃe your natiue land,

Your children, frends, and (which is more) your life,

With ʃo ʃtrong charmes doth loue bewitch our witts:

So faʃt in vs this fire once kindled flames.

Yet if his harme by yours redreʃʃe might haue,

Cl. With mine it may be cloʃ’de in darksome graue.

Ch. And that, as Alceʃt to her ʃelfe vnkinde,

You might exempt him from the lawes of death.

But he is ʃure to die: and now his ʃworde

Already moiʃted is in his warme bloude,

Helples for any ʃuccour you can bring

Againʃt deaths ʃtinge, which he muʃt ʃhortlie feele.

Then let your loue be like the loue of olde

Which Carian Queene did nouriʃh in hir heart

Of hir Mauʃolus: builde for him a tombe

Whoʃe ʃtatelineʃʃe a wonder new may make.

Let him, let him haue ʃumtuouʃe funeralles:

Let graue thereon the horror of his fights:

Let earth be buri’d with vnburied heaps.

Frame their Pharʃaly, and diʃcoulour’d ʃtream’s

Of depe Enipeus: frame the graʃʃie plaine,

Which lodg’d his campe at ʃiege of Mutina.

Make all his combats, and couragiouʃe acts:

And yearly plaies to his praiʃe inʃtitute:

Honor his memorie: with doubled care

Breed and bring vp the children of you both

In Cæʃars grace: who as a noble Prince

Will leaue them Lords of this moʃt gloriouʃe realme.

Cl. What ʃhame were that? ah Gods! what infamie?

With Antonie in his good haps to ʃhare,

And ouerliue him dead: deeming enough

To ʃhed ʃome teares vpon a widdowe tombe?

The after-liuers iuʃtly might report

That I him onlie for his empire lou’d,

And high ʃtate: and that in hard estate

I for another did him lewdlie leaue?

Like to thoʃe birds wafted with wandring wings

From foraine lands in ʃpring-time here arriue:

And liue with vs ʃo long as Somers heate,

And their foode laʃts, then ʃeke another ʃoile.

And as we ʃee with ceaʃleʃʃe fluttering

Flocking of ʃeelly flies a browniʃh cloud

To vintag’d wine yet working in the tonne:

Not parting thence while they ʃwete liquor taʃte:

After, as ʃmoke, all vaniʃh in the aire,

And of the ʃwarme not one ʃo much appeare.

Eras. By this ʃharp death what profit can you winne?

Cl. I neither gaine nor profit ʃeke therein.

Er. What praiʃe ʃhall you of after-ages gett?

Cl. Nor praiʃe, nor glory in my cares are ʃett.

Er. What other end ought you reʃpect, then this?

Cl. My only end my onely duty is.

Er. your dutie muʃt vpon some good be founded.

Cl. On vertue it, the onlie good, is grounded.

Er. What is that vertue? Cl. That which vs beʃeemes.

Er. Outrage our ʃelues? who that beʃeeming deemes?

Cl. Finiʃh I will my ʃorowes dieng thus.

Er. Miniʃh you will your glories doing thus-

Cl. Good frends I pray you ʃeeke not to reuoke

My fix’d intent of folowing Antonie.

I will die. I will die: muʃt not his life,

His life and death by mine be folowed?

Meane while, deare ʃiʃters, liue: and while you liue,

Doe often honor to our loued Tombes.

Straw them with flowrs: and ʃometimes happelie

The tender thought of Antonie your Lorde

And me poore ʃoule to teares ʃhall you inuite,

And our true loues your dolefull voice commend.

Ch. And thinke you Madame, we from you will part?

Thinke you alone to feele deaths ougly darte?

Thinke you to leaue vs? and that the ʃame ʃunne

Shall ʃee at once you dead, and vs aliue?

Weele die with you: and Clotho pittileʃʃe

Shall vs with you in helliʃh boate imbarque.

Cl. Ah liue, I praie you: this diʃaʃtred woe

Which racks my heart, alone to me belonges:

My lott longs not to you: ʃeruants to be

No ʃhame, no harme to you, as is to me.

Liue ʃiʃters, liue, and ʃeing his ʃuʃpect

Hath cauʃeleʃʃe me in ʃea of ʃorowes drown’d,

And that I cannot liue, if ʃo I would,

Nor yet would leaue this life, if ʃo I could,

Without his loue: procure me, Diomed,

That gainʃt poore me he be no more incenʃd.

Wreʃt out of his conceit that harmfull doubt,

That ʃince his wracke he hath of me conceiu’d

Thogh wrong conceiu’d witneʃʃe you reuerent Gods,

Barking Anubis, Apis bellowing.

Tell him, my ʃoule burning, impatient,

Forlorne with loue of him, for certaine ʃeale

Of her true loialtie my corpʃe hath left,

T’encreaʃe of dead the number numberleʃʃe.

Go then, and if as yet he me bewaile,

If yet for me his heart one ʃigh fourth breathe

Bleʃt ʃhall I be: and farre with more content

Departe this world, where ʃo I me torment.

Meane ʃeaʃon vs let this ʃadd tombe encloʃe,

Attending here till death conclude our woes.

Diom. I will obey your will. Cl. So the deʃert

The Gods repay of thy true faithfull heart.

Diomed.

And is’t not pittie, Gods, ah Gods of heau’n!

To ʃee from loue ʃuch hatefull frutes to ʃpring?

And is’t not pittie that this firebrand ʃo

Laies waʃte the trophes of Philippi fieldes?

Where are thoʃe ʃwete allurements, thoʃe ʃwete lookes,

Which Gods themʃelues right hart-ʃicke wuld haue made?

What doth that beautie, rareʃt guift of heau’n,

Wonder of earth? Alas! what doe thoʃe eies?

And that ʃwete voice all Aʃia vnderʃtoode,

And ʃunburnt Africke wide in deʃerts ʃpred?

Is their force dead? haue they no further power?

Can not by them Octauius be ʃupriz’d?

Alas! if Ioue in middʃt of all his ire,

With thunderbolt in hand ʃome land to plague,

Had cast his eies on my Queene, out of hande

His plaguing bolte had falne out of his hande:

Fire of his wrathe into vaine ʃmoke should turne,

And other fire within his breʃt should burne.

Nought liues ʃo faire. Nature by ʃuch a worke

Her ʃelfe, ʃhould ʃeme, in workmanʃhip hath paʃt.

She is all heau’nlie: neuer any man

But ʃeeing hir was rauiʃh’d with her ʃight.

The Allablaʃter couering of hir face,

The corall coullor hir two lips engraines,

Her beamy eies, two Sunnes of this our world,

Of hir faire haire the fine and flaming golde,

Her braue ʃtreight ʃtature, and her winning partes

Are nothing elʃe but fiers, fetters, dartes.

Yet this is nothing th’e’nchaunting skilles

Of her celeʃtiall Sp’rite, hir training ʃpeache,

Her grace, hir Maieʃtie, and forcing voice,

Whither ʃhe it with fingers ʃpeach conʃorte,

Or hearing ʃceptred kings embaʃʃadors

Anʃwer to eache in his owne language make.

Yet now at nede it aides her not at all

With all theʃe beauties, ʃo hir ʃorowe ʃtings.

Darkned with woe hir only ʃtudie is

To wepe, to ʃigh, to ʃeke for lonelines.

Careles of all, hir haire diʃordred hangs:

Hir charming eies whence murthring looks did flie,

Now riuers grown’, whoʃe well ʃpring anguiʃh is,

Do trickling waʃh the marble of hir face.

Hir faire diʃcouer’d breʃt with ʃobbing ʃwolne

Selfe cruell ʃhe ʃtill martirith with blowes,

Alas! It’s our ill hap, for if hir teares

She would conuert into her louing charmes,

To make a conquest of the conqueror,

(As well ʃhee might, would ʃhe hir force imploie)

She ʃhould vs ʃaftie from theʃe ills procure,

Hir crowne to hir, and to hir race aʃʃure.

Vnhappy he, in whome ʃelfe-ʃuccour lies,

Yet ʃelf-forʃaken wanting ʃuccour dies.

Chorus.

O sweete fertile land, wherein

Phæbus did with breth inʃpire

Man who men did firʃt begin,

Formed firʃt of Nilus mire.

Whence of Artes the eldeʃt kindes,

Earthes moʃt heauenly ornament,

Were as from their fountaine ʃent,

To enlight our miʃtie mindes.

Whoʃe groʃʃe ʃprite fro endles time,

As in darkned priʃon pente,

Neuer did to knowledge clime.

Wher the Nile, our father good,

Father-like doth neuer miʃʃe

Yearely vs to bring ʃuch food,

As to life required is:

Visiting each yeare this plaine,

And with fatt ʃlime cou’ring it,

Which his ʃeauen mouthes do ʃpitt,

As the ʃeaʃon comes againe.

Making therby greateʃt growe

Buʃie reapers ioyfull paine,

When his flouds do higheʃt flowe.

Wandring Prince of riuers thou,

Honor of the Æthiops lande,

Of a Lord and maʃter now

Thou a ʃlaue in awe muʃt ʃtand.

Now of Tiber which is ʃpred

Leʃʃe in force, and leʃʃe in fame

Reuerence thou muʃt the name,

Whome all other riuers dread,

For his children ʃwolne in pride,

Who by conqueʃt ʃeeke to treade

Round this earth on euery ʃide.

Now thou muʃt begin to ʃende

Tribute of thy watrie ʃtore,

As Sea pathes thy ʃtepps ʃhall bende,

Yearely preʃents more and more.

Thy fatt ʃkumme, our fruitfull corne,

Pill’d from hence with theeuiʃh hands

All vncloth’d ʃhall leaue our lands

Into foraine Countrie borne.

Which puft vp with ʃuch a pray

Shall thereby the praiʃe adorne

Of that ʃcepter Rome doth ʃway.

Nought thee helps thy hornes to hide

Farre from hence in vnknown grounds,

Thay thy waters wander wide,

Yearely breaking banks, and bounds.

And that thy Skie-coullor’d brookes

Through a hundred people paʃʃe,

Drawing plots for trees and graʃʃe

With a thouʃand turn’s and crookes.

Whome all weary of their way

Thy throats which in wideneʃʃe paʃʃe

Powre into their Mother Sea.

Nought ʃo happie hapleʃʃe life

“ In this worlde as freedome findes:

“ Nought wherin mor ʃparkes are rife

“ To inflame couragious mindes.

“ But if force muʃt vs enforce

“ Nedes a yoke to vndergoe,

“ Vnder foraine yoke to goe

“ Still it proues a bondage worʃe.

“ And doubled ʃubiection

“ See we ʃhall, and feele, and knowe

“ Subiect to a stranger growne.

From hence forward for a King,

whoʃe firʃt being from this place

Should his breʃt by nature bring

Care of Countrie to embrace,

We at ʃurly face muʃt quake

Of ʃome Romaine madly bent:

Who, our terrour to augment,

His Proconʃuls axe will ʃhake.

Driuing with our Kings from hence

Our eʃtabliʃh’d gouerment,

Iuʃtice ʃword, and Lawes defence.

Nothing worldly of ʃuch might

But more mightie Deʃtinie,

By ʃwift Times vnbridled flight,

Makes in ende his ende to ʃee.

Euery thing Time ouerthrowes,

Nought to end doth ʃteadfaʃt ʃtaie:

His great ʃithe mowes all away

As the ʃtalke of tender roʃe.

Onely Immortalitie

Of the Heau’ns doth it oppoʃe

Gainʃt his powrefull Deitie.

One daie there will come a daie

Which ʃhall quaile thy fortunes flower,

And thee ruinde low ʃhall laie

In ʃome barbrous Princes power.

When the pittie-wanting fire

Shall, O Rome, thy beauties burne,

And to humble aʃhes turne

Thy proud wealth, and rich attire,

Thoʃe guilt roofes which turretwiʃe,

Iuʃtly making Enuie mourne,

Threaten now to pearce Skies.

As thy forces fill each land

Harueʃts making here and there,

Reaping all with rauening hand

They find growing any where:

From each land ʃo to thy fall

Multitudes repaire ʃhall make,

From the common ʃpoile to take

What to each mans ʃhare maie fall.

Fingred all thou ʃhalt behold:

No iote left for tokens ʃake

That thou wert ʃo great of olde.

Like vnto the ancient Troie

Whence deriu’de thy founders be,

Conqu’ring foe ʃhall thee enioie,

And a burning praie in thee.

For within this turning ball

This we ʃee, and ʃee each daie:

All things fixed ends do ʃtaie,

Ends to firʃt beginnings fall.

And that nought, how ʃtrong or ʃtrange

Chaungles doth endure alwaie,

But endureth fatall change.

M. Antonius. Lucilius.

M. Ant.

Lucil. ʃole comfort of my bitter caʃe,

The only truʃt, the only hope I haue,

In laʃt deʃpaire: Ah! is not this the daie

That death ʃhould me of life and loue bereaue?

What waite I for that haue no refuge left,

But am ʃole remnant of my fortune left?

All leaue me, flie me: none, no not of them

Which of my greatnes greateʃt good receiu’d,

Stands with my fall: they ʃeeme as now aʃham’de

That heretofore they did me ought regarde:

They draw them backe, ʃhewing they folow’d me,

Not to partake my harm’s, but coozen me.

Lu. In this our world nothing is ʃtedfaʃt found,

In vaine he hopes, who here his hopes doth groūd.

Ant. Yet nought afflicts me, nothing killes me ʃo,

As that I ʃo my Cleopatra ʃee

Practize with Cæʃar, and to him tranʃport

My flame, her loue, more deare then life to me.

Lu. Beleeue it not: Too high a heart ʃhe beares,

Too Princelie thoughts. Ant. Too wiʃe a head ʃhe weare

Too much enflam’d with greatnes, euermore

Gaping for our great Empires gouerment.

Lu. So long time you her conʃtant loue haue tri’de.

Ant. But ʃtill with me good fortune did abide.

Lu. Her changed loue what token makes you know?

An. Peluʃium loʃt, and Actian ouerthrow,

Both by her fraud: my well appointed fleet,

And truʃtie Souldiors in my quarrel arm’d,

Whome ʃhe, falʃe ʃhe, in ʃtede of my defence,

Came to perʃuade, to yelde them to my foe:

Such honor Thyre done, ʃuch welcome giuen,

Their long cloʃe talkes I neither knew, nor would,

And trecherouʃe wrong Alexas hath me done,

Witnes too well her periur’d loue to me.

But you O Gods (if any faith regarde)

With ʃharpe reuenge her faithlesse change reward.

Lu. The dole she made vpon our ouerthrow,

Her Realme giuen vp for refuge to our men,

Her poore attire when ʃhe deuoutly kept

The ʃolemne day of her natiuitie,

Againe the coʃt and prodigall expence

Shew’d when ʃhe did your birth day celebrate,

Do plaine enough her heart vnfained proue,

Equally toucht, you louing, as you loue.

Ant. Well; be her loue to me or falʃe, or true,

Once in my ʃoule a cureles wound I feele.

I loue, nay burne in fire of her loue:

Each day, each night her Image haunts my minde,

Her ʃelfe my dreames: and ʃtill I tired am,

And ʃtill I am with burning pincers nipt.

Extreame my harme: yet sweeter to my ʃence

Then boiling Torch of iealouʃe torments fire:

This grief, nay rage, in me ʃuch ʃturre doth kepe,

And thornes me ʃtill, both when I wake and ʃlepe.

Take Cæʃar conqueʃt, take my goods, take he

Th’onor to be Lord of the earth alone,

My Sonnes, my life bent headlong to miʃhapps:

No force, ʃo not my Cleopatra take.

So fooliʃh I, I cannot her forget,

Though better were I baniʃht her my thought.

Like to the ʃicke, whoʃe throte the feauers fire

Hath vehemently with thirʃtie drought enflam’d,

Drinkes ʃtill, albee the drinke he ʃtill deʃires

Be nothing elʃe but fewell to his flame.

He can not rule himʃelfe: his health’s reʃpect

Yeldeth to his diʃtempered ʃtomacks heate.

Lu. Leaue of this loue, that thus renewes your woe.

Ant. I do my beʃt, but ah! can not do ʃo.

Lu. Thinke how you haue ʃo braue a captaine bene,

And now are by this vaine affection falne.

Ant. The ceaʃles thought of my felicitie

Plunges me more in this aduerʃitie.

For nothing ʃo a man in ill torments,

As who to him his good ʃtate repreʃents.

This makes my rack, my anguiʃh, and my woe

Equall vnto the helliʃh paβions growe,

When I to mind my happy puiʃance call

Which erʃt I had by warlike conqueʃt wonne,

And that good fortune which me neuer left,

Which hard diʃaʃtre now hath me bereft.

With terror tremble all the world I made

At my ʃole worde, as Ruʃhes in the ʃtreames

At waters will: I conquer’d Italie,

I conquer’d Rome, that Nations ʃo redoubt.

I bare (meane while beʃieging Mutina)

Two Conʃuls armies for my ruine brought.

Bath’d in their bloud, by their deaths witneβing

My force and skill in matters Martiall.

To wreake thy vnkle, vnkinde Cæʃar, I

With bloud of enemies the bankes embru’d

Of ʃtain’d Enipeus, hindring his courʃe

Stopped with heapes of piled carcaʃes:

When Caʃsius and Brutus ill betide

Marcht againʃt vs, by vs twiʃe put to flight,

But by my ʃole conduct: for all the time

Cæʃar heart-ʃicke with feare and feauer laie.

Who knowes it not? and how by euery one

Fame of the fact was giu’n to me alone.

There ʃprang the loue, the neuer changing loue,

Wherin my hart hath ʃince to yours bene bound:

There was it, my Lucil, you Brutus ʃau’de,

And for your Brutus Antonie you found.

Better my happ in gaining ʃuch a frende,

Then in ʃubduing ʃuch an enemie.

Now former vertue dead doth me forʃake,

Fortune engulfes me in extreame diʃtreʃʃe:

She turnes from me her ʃmiling countenance,

Caʃting on me miʃhapp vpon miʃhapp,

Left and betraide of thouʃand thouʃand frends,

Once of my ʃute, but you Lucil are left,

Remaining to me ʃtedfaʃt as a tower

In holy loue, in ʃpite of fortunes blaʃtes.

But if of any God my voice be heard,

And be not vainely ʃcatt’red in the heau’ns,

Such goodnes ʃhall not glorileʃʃe be loʃte.

But comming ages ʃtill thereof ʃhall boʃte.

Lu. Men in their frendʃhip euer ʃhould be one,

And neuer ought with fickle Fortune ʃhake,

Which ʃtill remoues, nor will, nor knowes the way,

Her rowling bowle in one ʃure ʃtate to ʃtaie.

Wherfore we ought as borrow’d things receiue

The goods light ʃhe lends vs to pay againe:

Not holde them ʃure, nor on them build our hopes

As on ʃuch goods as cannot faile, and fall:

But thinke againe, nothing is dureable,

Vertue except, our neuer failing hoʃte:

So bearing ʃaile when fauoring windes do blowe,

As frowning Tempeʃts may vs leaʃt diʃmaie

When they on vs do fall: not ouer-glad

With good eʃtate, or ouer-grieu’d with bad.

Reʃiʃt mishap. Ant. Alas! it is too ʃtronge.

Miʃhappes oft times are by ʃome comfort borne:

But theʃe, ay me! whoʃe weights oppreʃʃe my hart,

Too heauie lie, no hope can them relieue.

There reʃts no more, but that with cruell blade

For lingring death a haʃtie waie be made.

Lu. Cæʃar, as heire vnto his fathers ʃtate:

So will his Fathers goodnes imitate,

To you warde: whome he know’s allied in bloud,

Alied in mariage, ruling equallie

Th’Empire with him, and with him making warre

Haue purg’d the earth of Cæʃars murtherers.

You into portions parted haue the world

Euen like coheir’s their heritages parte:

And now with one accord ʃo many yeares

In quiet peace both haue your charges rul’d.

Ant. Bloud and alliance nothing do preuaile

To coole the thirʃt of hote ambitious breaʃts:

The ʃonne his Father hardly can endure,

Brother his brother, in one common Realme.

So feruent this deʃire to commaund:

Such iealouʃie it kindleth in our hearts.

Sooner will men permit another ʃhould

Loue her they loue, then weare the Crowne they weare.

All lawes it breakes, turnes all things vpside downe:

Amitie, kindred, nought ʃo holy is

But it defiles. A monarchie to gaine

None cares which way, ʃo he maie it obtaine.

Lu. Suppoʃe he Monarch be and that this world

No more acknowledg ʃundrie Emperours.

That Rome him onlie feare, and that he ioyne

The Eaʃt with weʃt, and both at once do rule:

Why ʃhould he not permitt you peaceablie

Diʃcharg’d of charge and Empires dignitie,

Priuate to liue reading Philoʃophie,

In learned Greece, Spaine, Aʃia, anie lande?

Ant. Neuer will he his Empire thinke aʃʃur’de

While in this world Marke Antonie ʃhall liue.

Sleeples Suʃpicion, Pale diʃtruʃt, colde feare

Alwaies to princes companie to beare

Bred of Reports: reports which night and day

Perpetuall gueʃts from Court go not away.

Lu. He hath not ʃlaine your brother Lucius,

Nor ʃhortned hath the age of Lepidus,

Albeit both into his hands were falne,

And he with wrath againʃt them both enflam’d.

Yet one, as Lord in quiet reʃt doth beare,

The greateʃt ʃway in great Iberia:

The other with his gentle Prince retaines

Of highest Prieʃt the ʃacred dignitie.

Ant. He feares not them, their feeble force he knowes.

Lu. He feares no vanquiʃht ouerfill’d with woes.

An. Fortune may chaunge againe. L. A down-caʃt foe

Can hardlie riʃe, which once is brought ʃo lowe.

Ant. All that I can, is done: for laʃt aʃʃay

(When all means fail’d) I to entreatie fell,

(Ah coward creature! ) whence againe repulʃt

Of combate I vnto him proffer made:

Though he in prime, and I by feeble age

Mightily weakned both in force and skill.

Yet could not he his coward heart aduaunce

Baʃely affraid to trie ʃo praiʃefull chaunce.

This makes me plaine, makes me my ʃelfe accuʃe,

Fortune in this her ʃpitefull force doth vʃe

‘Gainst my gray hayres: in this vnhappie I

Repine at heau’ns in my happes pittiles.

A man, a woman both in might and minde,

In Marʃes ʃchole who neuer leʃʃon learn’d,

Should me repulʃe, chaʃe, ouerthrow, deʃtroie,

Me of ʃuch fame, bring to ʃo low an ebbe?

Alcides bloud, who from my infancie

With happie proweʃʃe crowned haue my praiʃe

Witneʃʃe thou Gaule vnuʃ’d to seruile yoke,

Thou valiant Spaine, you fields of Theʃʃalie

With millions of mourning cries bewail’d,

Twiʃe watred now with bloude of Italie.

Lu. witneʃʃe may Afrique, and of conquer’d world

All fower quarters witneʃʃes may be.

For in what part of earth inhabited,

Hungrie of praiʃe haue you not enʃignes ʃpredd?

An. Thou know’ʃt rich Ægipt (Ægipt of my deeds

Faire and foule ʃubiect) Ægypt ah! thou know’ʃt

How I behau’d me fighting for thy kinge,

When I regainde him his rebellious Realme:

Against his foes in battaile ʃhewing force,

And after fight in victory remorʃe.

Yet if to bring my glory to the ground,

Fortune had made me ouerthrowne by one

Of greater force, of better ʃkill then I;

One of thoʃe Captaines feared ʃo of olde,

Camill, Marcellus, worthy Scipio,

This late great Cæʃar, honor of our ʃtate,

Or that great Pompei aged growne in armes;

That after harueʃt of a world of men

Made in a hundred battailes, fights, aʃʃaults,

My body thorow pearʃt with puʃh of pike

Had vomited my bloud, in bloud my life,

In midd’ʃt of millions felowes in my fall:

The leʃʃe her wrong, the leʃʃe should my woe:

Nor ʃhe ʃhould paine, nor I complaine me ʃo.

No, no, wheras I ʃhould haue died in armes,

And vanquiʃht oft new armies ʃhould haue arm’d,

New battailes giuen, and rather loʃt with me

All this whole world ʃubmitted vnto me:

A man who neuer ʃaw enlaced pikes

With briʃtled points againʃt his ʃtomake bent,

Who feares the field, and hides him cowardly

Dead at the very noiʃe the ʃouldiours make.

His vertue, fraude, deceit, malicious guile,

His armes the arts that falʃe Vlisses vʃ’de,

Knowne at Modena, where the Conʃuls both

Death-wounded were, and wounded by his men

To gett their armie, war with it to make

Againʃt his faith, againʃt his countrie ʃoile.

Of Lepidus, which to his ʃuccours came,

To honor whome he was by dutie bounde,

The Empire he vʃurpt: corrupting firʃt

With baites and bribes the moʃt part of his men.

Yet me hath ouercome, and made his pray,

And ʃtate of Rome, with me hath ouercome.

Strange! one diʃordred act at Actium

The earth ʃubdu’de, my glorie hath obʃcur’d.

For ʃince, as one whome heauens wrath attaints,

With furie caught, and more then furious

Vex’d with my euills, I neuer more had care

My armies loʃt, or loʃt name to repaire:

I did no more reʃiʃt. Lu. All warres affaires,

But battailes moʃt, dayly haue their ʃucceʃʃe

Now good, now ill: and though that fortune haue

Great force and power in euery worldie thing,

Rule all, do all, haue all things faʃt enchaind

Vnto the circle of hir turning wheele:

Yet ʃeemes it more then any practiʃe elʃe

She doth frequent Bellonas bloudie trade:

And that hir fauour, wauering as the wind,

Hir greateʃt power therein doth oftneʃt ʃhewe.

Whence growes, we dailie ʃee, who in their youth

Gatt honor ther, do looʃe it in their age,

Vanquiʃht by ʃome leʃʃe warlike then themʃelues:

Whome yet a meaner man ʃhall ouerthrowe.

Hir vʃe is not to lend vs ʃtill her hande,

But ʃometimes headlong back a gaine to throwe,

Wher by hir fauor ʃhe hath vs extolld

Vnto the topp of higheʃt happines.

Ant. well ought I curʃe within my grieued ʃoule,

Lamenting daie and night, this ʃenceleʃʃe loue,

Whereby my faire entiʃing foe entrap’d

My hedeleʃʃe Reaʃon, could no more eʃcape.

It was not fortunes euer changing face:

It was not Deʃt’nies chaungles violence

Forg’d my miʃhap. Alas! who doth not know

They make, nor marre nor any thing can doe.

Fortune, which men ʃo feare, adore, deteʃt,

Is but a chaunce whose cauʃe unknow’n doth reʃt.

Although oft times the cauʃe is well perceiu’d,

But not th’effect the ʃame that was conceiu’d.

Pleaʃure, nought elʃe, the plague of this our life,

Our life which ʃtill a thouʃand plagues purʃue,

Alone hath me this ʃtrange diʃaʃtre ʃpunne,

Falne from a ʃouldior to a Chamberer,

Careles of vertue, careles of all praiʃe.

Nay, as the fatted ʃwine in filthy mire

With glutted heart I wallow’d in delights,

All thoughts of honor troden vnder foote.

So I me loʃt: for finding this ʃwete cupp

Pleaʃing my taʃt, vnwiʃe I drunke my fill,

And through the ʃwetenes of that poiʃons power

By ʃtepps I draue my former wits aʃtraie.

I made my frends, offended me forʃake,

I holpe my foes againʃt my ʃelfe to riʃe.

I robd my ʃubiects, and for followers

I ʃaw my ʃelfe beʃett with flatterers.

Mine idle armes faire wrought with ʃpiders worke,

My ʃcattred men without their enʃignes ʃtrai’d:

Cæʃar meane while who neuer would haue dar’de

To cope with me, me ʃodainely deʃpis’de,

Tooke hart to fight, and hop’de for victorie

On one ʃo gone, who glorie had forgone.

Lu. Enchaunting pleasure Venus ʃwete delights

Weaken our bodies, ouer-cloud our ʃprights,

Trouble our reaʃon, from our harts out chaʃe

All holie vertues lodging in thir place:

Like as the cunning fiʃher takes the fiʃhe

By traitor baite whereby the hooke is hidde:

So Pleaʃure ʃerues to vice in ʃteede of foode

To baite our ʃoules thereon too liquoriʃhe.

This poiʃon deadlie is alike to all,

But on great kings doth greateʃt outrage worke.

Taking the Roiall ʃcepters from their hands,

Thence forward to be by ʃome ʃtraunger borne:

While that their people charg’d with heauie loades

Their flatt’rers pill, and ʃuck their mary drie,

Not ru’lde but left to great men as a pray,

While this fonde Prince himʃelfe in pleaʃur’s drowns:

Who heares nought, ʃees noght, doth nought of a king

Seming himʃelfe againʃt himʃelfe conʃpirde.

Then equall Iuʃtice wandreth baniʃhed,

And in hir ʃeat ʃitts greedie Tyrannie.

Confuʃ’d diʃorder troubleth alleʃtates,

Crimes without feare and outrages are done.

Then mutinous Rebellion ʃhewes hir face,

Now hid with this, and now with that pretence,

Prouoking enimies, which on each ʃide

Enter at eaʃe, and make them Lords of all.

The hurtfull workes of pleaʃure here behold.

An. The wolfe is not ʃo hurtfull to the folde,

Froʃt to the grapes, to ripened frutes the raine:

As pleaʃure is to Princes full of paine.

Lu. Ther nedes no proofe, but by th’Aʃʃirian kinge,

On whome that Monʃter woefull wrack did bring.

An. Ther nedes no proofe, but by vnhappie I,

Who loʃt my empire, honor,life therby.

Lu. Yet hath this ill ʃo much the greater force,

As ʃcarcelie anie do againʃt it ʃtand:

No, not the Demy-gods the olde world knew,

Who all ʃubdu’de, could Pleaʃures power ʃubdue.

Great Hercules, Hercules once that was

Wonder of earth and heau’n, matchles in might,

Who Anteus, Lycus, Geryon ouer came,

Who drew from hell the triple-headed dogg,

Who Hydra kill’d, vanquiʃhd Achelous,

Who heauens weight on his ʃtrong ʃhoulders bare:

Did he not vnder Pleaʃures burthen bow?

Did he not Captiue to this paʃʃion yelde,

When by his Captiue, so he was inflam’de,

As now your ʃelfe in Cleopatra burne?

Slept in hir lapp, hir boʃome kiʃt and kiʃte,

With baʃe vnʃemelie ʃeruice bought her loue,

Spinning at diʃtaffe, and with ʃinewy hand

Winding on ʃpindles threde, in maides attire?

His conqu’ring clubbe at reʃt on wal did hang:

His bow vnʃtringd he bent not as he vʃ’de:

Vpon his ʃhafts the weauing ʃpiders ʃpunne:

And his hard cloake the fretting mothes did pierce.

The monʃters free and fearles all the time

Throughout the world the people did torment,

And more and more encreaʃing daie by day

Scorn’d his weake heart become a miʃtreʃʃe plaie.

An. In onlelie this like Hercules am I,

In this I proue me of his lignage right:

In this himʃelfe, his deedes I ʃhew in this,

In this, nought elʃe, my anceʃtor he is.

But goe we: die I muʃt, and with braue ende

Concluʃion make of all foregoing harmes:

Die, die I muʃt: I muʃt a noble death,

A glorious death vnto my ʃuccor call:

I muʃt deface the ʃhame of time abuʃ’d,

I muʃt adorne the wanton loues I vʃ’de,

With ʃome couragiouʃe act: that my laʃt daie

By mine owne hand my ʃpots may waʃh away.

Come deare Lucill: alas! why wepe you thus!

This mortall lot is common to vs all.

We must all die, each doth in homage owe

Vnto that God that ʃhar’d the Realmes belowe.

Ah ʃigh no more: alas: appeace your woes,

For by your griefe my griefe more eager growes.

Chorus.

Alas, with what tormenting fire

Vs martireth this blind deʃire

To ʃtaie our life from flieng!

How ceaʃeleʃlie our minds doth rack,

How heauie lies vpon our back

This daʃtard feare of dieng!

Death rather healthfull ʃuccour giues,

Death rather all miʃhapps relieues

That life vpon vs throweth:

And euer to vs death vncloʃe

The doore, whereby from cureleʃʃe woes

Our wearie ʃoule out goeth.

What Goddeʃʃe else more milde then ʃhee

To burie all our paine can be,

What remedie more pleaʃing?

Our pained hearts when dolor ʃtings,

And nothing reʃt, or respite brings,

What help haue we more eaʃing?

Hope which to vs doth comfort giue,

And doth our fainting harts reuiue,

Hath not ʃuch force in anguiʃh:

For promiʃing a vaine reliefe

She oft vs failes in midʃt of griefe,

And helples letts vs languiʃh.

But Death who call on her at nede

Doth neuer with vaine ʃemblant feed,

But when them ʃorow paineth,

So riddes their ʃoules of all diʃtreʃʃe

Whoʃe heauie weight did them oppreʃʃe,

That not one griefe remaineth.

Who feareles and with courage bolde

Can Acherons black face beholde,

Which muddie water beareth:

And croβing ouer, in the way

Is not amaz’d at Perruque gray

Olde ruʃtie Charon weareth:

Who voide of dread can looke vpon

The dreadfull ʃhades that rome alone,

On bankes where ʃound no voices:

Whome with hir fire-brands and her Snakes

No whit afraide Alecto makes,

Nor triple-barking noyʃes:

Who freely can himʃelfe dispoʃe

Of that laʃt hower which all muʃt cloʃe,

And leaue this life at pleaʃure:

This noble freedome more eʃteemes,

And in his hart more precious deemes,

Then crowne and kingly treaʃure.

The waues which Boreas blaʃts turmoile

And cauʃe with foaming furie boile,

Make not his heart to tremble:

Nor brutiʃh broile, when with ʃtrong head

A rebell people madly ledde

Againʃt their Lords aʃʃemble:

Nor fearefull face of Tirant wood,

Who breaths but threats, and drinks but bloud,

No, nor the hand which thunder,

The hand of Ioue which thunder beares,

And ribbs of rock in ʃunder teares,

Teares mountains ʃides in sunder:

Nor bloudie Marʃes butchering hands,

Whoʃe lightnings deʃert laie the lands

whome duʃtie cloudes do couer:

From of whoʃe armour ʃun-beames flie,

And vnder them make quaking lie

The plaines wheron they houer:

Nor yet the cruell murth’ring blade

Warme in the moiʃtie bowells made

of people pell mell dieng

In ʃome great Cittie put to ʃack

By ʃauage Tirant brought to wrack,

At his colde mercie lieng.

How abiect him, how baʃe think I,

Who wanting courage can not dye

When need him therto calleth?

From whome the dagger drawne to kill

The cureleʃʃe griefes that vexe him ʃtill

For feare and faintnes falleth?

O Antonie with thy deare mate

Both in miʃfortunes fortunate!

Whoʃe thoughts to death aʃpiring

Shall you protect from victors rage,

Who on each side doth you encage,

To triumph much deʃiring.

That Cæʃar may you not offend

Nought elʃe but Death can you defend,

which his weake force derideth,

And all in this round earth containd,

Powr’les on them whome once enchaind

Auernus priʃon hideth:

Where great Pʃammetiques ghoʃt doth reʃt,

Not with infernall paine poʃʃest,

But in ʃweete fields detained:

And olde Amaʃis ʃoule likewiʃe,

And all our famous Ptolemies

That whilome on vs raigned.

Act. 4

Cæʃar. Agrippa. Dircetus. the Meʃʃenger.

Cæʃar.

You euer-liuing Gods which all things holde

Within the power of your celeʃtiall hands,

By whome heate, colde, the thunder, and the winde,

The properties of enterchaunging mon’ths

Their courʃe and being haue; which do ʃet downe

Of Empires by your deʃtinied decree

The force, age, time, and ʃubiect to no chaunge

Chaunge all, reʃeruing nothing in one ʃtate:

You haue aduaunʃt, as high as thundring heau’n

The Romains greatnes by Bellonas might:

Maiʃtring the world with fearefull violence,

Making the world widdow of libertie.

Yet at this day this proud exalted Rome

Deʃpoil’d, captiu’d, at one mans will doth bende:

Her Empire mine, her life is in my hand,

As Monarch I both world and Rome commaund;

Do all, can all; fourth my command’ment caʃt

Like thundring fire from one to other Pole

Equall to Ioue: beʃtowing by my worde

Happes and miʃhappes, as Fortunes King and Lord.

No Towne there is, but vp my Image ʃettes,

But ʃacrifice to me doth dayly make:

Whither where Phæbus ioyne his mourning ʃteedes,

Or where the night them weary entertaines,

Or where the heat the Garamants doth ʃcorche,

Or where the colde from Boreas breaʃt is blowne:

All Cæʃar do both awe and honor beare,

And crowned Kings his verie name doth feare.

Antonie knowes it well, for whom not one

Of all the Princes all this earth do rule,

Armes againʃt me: for all redoubt the power

Which heau’nly powers on earth haue made me beare.

Antonie, he poore man with fire inflam’de

A womans beauties kindled in his heart,

Roʃe againʃt me, who longer could not beare

My ʃiʃters wrong he did ʃo ill entreat:

Seing her left while that his leud delights

Her husband with his Cleopatra tooke

In Alexandrie, where both nights and daies

Their time they paʃs’d in nought but loues and plaies.

All Aʃias forces into one he drewe,

And forth he ʃett vpon the azur’d waues

A thouʃand and a thouʃand Shipps, which fill’d

With Souldiours, pikes, with targets, arrowes, darts,

Made Neptune quake, and all the watrie troupes

Of Glanques, and Tritons lodg’d at Actium,

But mightie Gods, who ʃtill the force withʃtand

Of him, who cauʃles doth another wrong,

In leʃʃe then moments, ʃpace redus’d to nought

All that proud power by Sea or land he brought.

Agr. Preʃumptuouʃe pride of high and hawtie ʃprite,

Voluptuouʃe care of fond and foolish loue,

Haue iuʃtly wrought his wrack: who thought he helde

(By ouerweening) Fortune in his hand.

Of vs he made no count, but as to play,

So fearles came our forces to aʃʃay.

So ʃometimes fell to Sonnes of Mother Earth,

Which crawl’d to heau’n warre on the God to make,

Olymp on Pelion, Ossa on Olymp,

Pindus on Oʃʃa loading by degrees:

That at hand ʃtrokes with mightie clubbes the might

On moʃsie rocks the Gods make tumble downe:

When mightie Ioue with burning anger chaʃ’d,

Disbraind with him Gyges and Briareus,

Blunting his darts vpon their bruʃed bones.

For no one thing the Gods can leʃʃe abide

In deedes of men, then Arrogance and pride.

And ʃtill the proud, which too much takes in hand,

Shall fowleʃt fall, where beʃt he thinkes to ʃtand.

Cæʃ. Right as ʃome Pallace, or ʃome ʃtately tower,

Which ouer-lookes the neighbour buildings round

In ʃcorning wiʃe, and to the Starres vp growes,

Which in ʃhort time his owne weight ouerthrowes.

What monʃtrous pride, nay what impietie

Incenʃt him onward to the Gods diʃgrace?

When his two children, Cleopatras bratts,

To Phoebe and her brother he compar’d,

Latonasrace, cauʃing them to be call’d

The Sunne and Moone? Is not this folie right?

And is not this the Gods to make his foes?

And is not this himʃelfe to worke his woes?

Agr. In like proud ʃort he caus’d his head to leeʃe

The Iewiʃh king Antigonus, to haue

His Realme for balme, that Cleopatra lou’d,

As though on him he had ʃome treaʃon prou’d.

Cæʃ. Lydia to her, and Siria he gaue,

Cyprus of golde, Arabia rich of ʃmelles:

And to his children more Cilicia,

Parth’s, Medes, Armenia, Phoenicia:

The kings of kings proclaming them to be,

By his owne word, as by a ʃound decree.

Agr. What? Robbing his owne country of her due

Triumph’d he not in Alexandria,

Of Artabasus the Armenian King,

Who yelded on his periur’d word to him?

Cæʃ. Nay, neuer Rome more iniuries receiu’d,

Since thou, ô Romulus, by flight of birds

with happy hand the Romain walles did’ʃt build,

Then Antonies fond loues to it hath done.

Nor euer warre more holie, nor more iuʃt,

Nor vndertaken with more hard conʃtraint,

Then is this warre: which were it not, our ʃtate

Within ʃmall time all dignitie ʃhould looʃe:

Though I lament (thou Sunne my witnes art,

And thou great Ioue) that it ʃo deadly proues:

That Romain bloud ʃhould in ʃuch plentie flowe,

Watring the fields and paʃtures where we go.

What Carthage in olde hatred obʃtinate,

What Gaule ʃtill barking at our riʃing ʃtate,

What rebell Samnite, what fierce Phyrrus power,

What cruell Mithridates, what Parth hath wrought

Such woe to Rome? whoʃe common wealth he had,

(Had be bene victor) into Egipt brought.

Agr. Surely the Gods, which haue this Cittie built

Steadfaʃt to ʃtand as long as time endures,

Which kepe the Capitoll, of vs take care,

And care will take of thoʃe ʃhall after come,

Haue made you victor, that you might redreʃʃe

Their honor growne by paʃʃed miʃchieues leʃʃe.

Cæʃ. The ʃeelie man when all the Greekiʃh Sea

His fleete had hidd, in hope me ʃure to drowne,

Me battaile gaue: where fortune, in my ʃtede,

Repulʃing him his forces diʃaraied.

Him ʃelfe tooke flight, ʃoone as his loue he ʃaw

All wanne through feare with full ʃailes flie away.

His men, though loʃt, whome none did now direct,

With courage fought faʃt grappled ʃhipp with ʃhipp,

Charging, reʃiʃting, as their oares would ʃerue,

With darts, with ʃwords, with Pikes, with fierie flames.

So that the darkned night her ʃtarrie vaile

Vpon the bloudie sea had ouer-ʃpred,

Whilʃt yet they held: and hardlie, hardlie then

They fell to flieng on the wauie plaine.

All full of Souldiors ouerwhelm’d with waues:

The aire throughout with cries and grones did ʃound:

The Sea did bluʃh with bloud: the neighbor ʃhores

Groned, ʃo they with ʃhipwracks peʃtred were,

And floting bodies left for pleaʃing foode

To birds, and beaʃts, and fiʃhes of the ʃea.

You know it well Agrippa. Ag. Mete it was

The Romain Empire ʃo ʃhould ruled be,

As heau’n is rul’d: which turning ouer vs,

All vnder things by his example turnes.

Now as of heau’n one onely Lord we know:

One onely Lord ʃhould rule this earth below.

When one ʃelf pow’re is common made to two,

Their duties they nor ʃuffer will, nor doe.

In quarrell ʃtill, in hate, in feare;

Meane while the people all the ʃmart do beare.

Cæs. Then to the end none, while my daies endure,

Seeking to raiʃe himʃelfe may ʃuccours finde,

We muʃt with bloud marke this our victorie,

For iuʃt example to all memorie.

Murther we muʃt, vntil not one we leaue,

Which may hereafter vs of reʃt bereaue.

Ag. Marke it with murthers? Who of that can like?

Cæ. Murthers muʃt vʃe, who doth aʃʃurance ʃeeke.

Ag. Aʃʃurance call you enemies to make?

Cæ. I make no ʃuch, but ʃuch away I take.

Ag. Nothing ʃo much as rigour doth diʃpleaʃe.

Cæ. Nothing ʃo much doth make me liue at eaʃe.

Agrippa. What eaʃe to him that feared is of all?

Cæ. Feared to be, and ʃee his foes to fall.

Ag. Commonly feare doth brede. and nouriʃh hate.

Cæ. Hate without pow’r, comes commonly too late.

Ag. A feared Prince hath oft his death deʃir’d.

Cæ. A Prince not fear’d hath oft his wrong conʃpir’de.

Ag. No guard ʃo ʃure, no forte ʃo ʃtrong doth proue,

No ʃuch defence, as is the peoples loue.

Cæʃ. Nought more vnʃure more weak, more like the winde,

Then Peoples fauour ʃtill to change enclinde.

Ag. Good Gods! what loue to gratious Prince men beare!

Cæʃ. What honor to the Prince that is ʃeuere!

Ag. Nought more diuine then is Benignitie.

Cæʃ. Nought likes the Gods as doth Seueritie.

Ag. Gods all forgiue. Cæ. On faults they paines do laie.

Ag. And giue their goods. Cæ. Oft times they tak away.

Ag. They wreake them not, ô Cæʃar, at each time

That by our ʃinnes they are to wrathe prouok’d.

Neither muʃt you (beleue, I humblie praie)

Your victorie with crueltie defile.

The Gods it gaue, it muʃt not be abuʃ’d,

But to the good of all men mildly vs’d,

And they be thank’d: that hauing giu’n you grace

To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie maʃʃe,

They may hence-forward hold it ʃtill in reʃt,

All ʃcattered power vnited in one breʃt.

Cæ. But what is he, that breathles comes ʃo faʃt,

Approching vs, and going in ʃuch haʃt?

Ag. He ʃemes affraid: and vnder his arme I

(But much I erre) a bloudy ʃword eʃpie.

Cæs. I long to vnderʃtand what it may be.

Ag. He hither comes: it’s beʃt we ʃtay and ʃee.

Dirce. What good God now my voice will reenforce,

That tell I may to rocks, and hilles, and woods,

To waues of ʃea, which daʃh vpon the ʃhore,

To earth, to heau’n, the woefull newes I bring?

Ag. What ʃodaine chance thee towards vs hath broght?

Dir. A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau’ns!

O gods too pittiles! Cæʃ. What monʃtrous happ

Wilt thou recount? Dir. Alas too hard miʃhapp!

When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld,

My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering quake,

I ʃenceles ʃtand, my breʃt with tempeʃt toʃt

Killes in my throte my wordes, ere fully borne.

Dead, dead he is: be ʃure of what I ʃay,

This murthering ʃword hath made the man away.

Cæʃ. Alas my heart doth cleaue, pittie me rackes,

My breaʃt doth pant to heare this dolefull tale.

Is Antonie then dead? To death, alas!

I am the cauʃe deʃpaire him so compelld.

But ʃouldior of his death the manner ʃhowe,

And how he did this liuing light forgoe.

Dir. When Antonie no hope remaining ʃaw

How warre he might, or how agreement make,

Saw him betraid by all his men of warre

In euery fight as well by ʃea, as lande;

That not content to yeeld them to their foes

They alʃo came againʃt himʃelfe to fight:

Alone in Court he gan himʃelf torment,

Accuʃe the Queene, himʃelfe of hir lament,

Call’d hir vntrue and traytreʃʃe, as who ʃought

To yeld him vp ʃhe could no more defend:

That in the harmes which for hir ʃake he bare,

As in his blisfull ʃtate, ʃhe might not ʃhare.

But ʃhe againe, who much his fury fear’d,

Gatt to the Tombes, darke horrors dwelling place:

Made lock the doores, and pull the hearʃes downe.

Then fell ʃhee wretched, with hir ʃelfe to fight.

A thouʃand plaints, a thouʃand ʃobbes ʃhe caʃt

From hir weake breʃt which to the bones was torne.

Of women hir the moʃt vnhappie call’d,

Who by hir loue, hir woefull loue, had loʃt

Hir realme, hir life, and more the loue of him,

Who while he was, was all hir woes ʃupport.

But that ʃhe faultles was ʃhe did inuoke

For witnes heau’n, and aire, and earth, and ʃea.

Then ʃent him worde, ʃhe was no more aliue,

But lay incloʃed dead within her Tombe.

This he beleeu’d; and fell to ʃigh and grone,

And croʃt his armes, then thus began to mone.

Cæʃ. Poore hopeles man! Dir.What doʃt thou more attend-

Ah Antonie! why doʃt thou death deferre:

Since Fortune thy profeʃʃed enimie,

Hath made to die, who only made thee liue?

Sone as with ʃighes hee had theʃe words vp clos’d,

His armor he vnlaʃte and caʃt it of,

Then all diʃarm’d he thus againe did ʃay:

My Queene, my heart, the grief that now I feele,

Is not that I your eies, my Sunne, do looʃe,

For ʃoone againe one Tombe ʃhall vs conioyne:

I grieue, whome men ʃo valorouʃe did deeme,

Should now, then you, of leʃʃer valor ʃeeme.

So ʃaid, forthwith he Eros to him call’d,

Eros his man; ʃummond him on his faith

To kill him at his nede. He tooke the ʃworde,

And at that inʃtant ʃtab’d therwith his breaʃt,

And ending life fell dead before his fete.

O Eros thankes (quoth Antonie) for this

Moʃt noble acte, who pow’rles me to kill,

On thee haʃt done, what I on mee ʃhould doe.

Of ʃpeaking thus he ʃcarce had made an ende,

And taken vp the bloudie ʃword from ground,

But he his bodie piers’d; and of redd bloud

A guʃhing fountaine all the chamber fill’d.

He ʃtaggred at the blow, his face grew pale,

And on a couche all feeble downe he fell,

Sounding with anguiʃh: deadly cold him tooke,

As if his ʃoule had then his lodging left

But he reuiu’d, and marking all our eies

Bathed in teares, and how our breaʃts we beatt

For pittie, anguiʃh, and for bitter griefe,

To ʃee him plong’d in extreame wretchednes:

He prai’d vs all to haʃte his lingr’ing death:

But no man willing, each himʃelfe withdrew.

Then fell he new to crie and vexe himʃelfe,

Vntill a man from Cleopatra came,

Who ʃaid from hir he had commaundement

To bring him to hir to the monument.

The poore ʃoule at theʃe words euen rapt with Ioy

Knowing ʃhe liu’d, prai’d vs him to conuey

Vnto his Ladie. Then vpon our armes

We bare him to the Tombe, but entred not.

For ʃhe, who feared captiue to be made,

And that ʃhe ʃhould to Rome in triumph goe,

Kept cloʃe the gate: but from a window high

Caʃt downe a corde, wherein he was impackt.

Then by hir womens helpt the corps ʃhe rais’d,

And by ʃtrong armes into hir windowe drew.