Dedication
¶To the Right Honourable, THOMAS, EARL OF DANBY, VISCOUNT LATIMER,
¶and BARON OSBORNE of Kiveton, in Yorkshire; Lord High Treasurer of England, one of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.
Mv LORD,
¶THE gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: for you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. Yet, I confess, I neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had—
¶Carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit.
¶There is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you.
¶It is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is to be forgotten. But such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after ages. Your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the English annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. His Majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. All things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method, if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. Your enemies had so embroiled the management of [8]your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. And as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. Your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no further help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought most surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. The highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to God and nature. This then, my lord, is your just commendation, and that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: You have not only restored but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction. An action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. It is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. The disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. A king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom God has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, I say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. Moderation is doubtless an establishment of [9]greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. The undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. These, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble Englishman, as indeed they are properly English virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well-poised a government;—a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. Both my nature, as I am an Englishman, and my reason, asIa m a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. For no Christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no further check upon them; and the people must surfer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. If I must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. The nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the Continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: And, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of One, in a monarchy, nor of Many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. It is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. Since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least, a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. Felices nimium, bona si sua ndrint, Angligentel And yet there are not wanting malcontents among us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the [10]people that they might be happier by a change. It was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is more free than his nature would allow, or, if I may so say, than God could make him. We have already all the liberty which freeborn subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. But if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. In the meantime, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state? Who made them the trustees, or to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of England? If their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. He who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. Yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of the fishing; as they who began the late rebellion enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. Neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. Every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. These, my lord, are considerations, which I should not pass so lightly over, had I room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true Englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. And to whom could I more fidy apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? The memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. But so unhappy an occasion of [11]manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of God, and the prudence of your administration, will, I hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. The relation which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. For what can deserve a greater place in the English chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country? The honour and gallantry of the Earl of Lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the protomartyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master.
¶Yet after all, my lord, if I may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. You are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. Those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. Pardon me, my lord, if I speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice.
¶This last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while I pity your want of leisure, I have impertinendy detained you so long a time. I have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that I am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore I will say nothing of the poem, which I present to you, because I know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, I have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is,
¶My Lord,
¶Your Lordship's most obliged,
¶Most humble, and
¶Most obedient, servant,
John Dryden.
Preface
¶THE death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and there
's
p. 14¶fore I might have let it pass, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that Cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. They betray themselves who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet.
¶Honest Montaigne goes yet further: Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses. Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce quelle! ne craignent aucunement a faire: Nous n'osons appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer d toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous I'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne I'en croit. My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come.
¶Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the civilest man in the company is [15]commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners make you sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolytus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics I am sure will commend him for it. But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. But take Hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and I suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. In the meantime we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the Hippolytus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolyte. I should not have troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our Chedrcux critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the [16]multitude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry—
¶Rarus enim jermi seams communis in MAFortune!. ¶And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. [17]Thus the case is hard with writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty.
¶Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. It was known beforehand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. In the meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions. They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. Maecenas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of Maecenas, but little of his liberality. They are for prosecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. Some of [18]their little zanies yet go further; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself, as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the buffoon;
¶Demetri, leque. Tigelli,Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedral. ¶With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggerel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, misapply his censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry—
¶Saxum antiquum, ingens,—Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. ¶But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against enemies—
¶Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis.Turn lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus,Nec spattum evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum. ¶For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue—
p. 19¶Vellem in amicitii sic errarcmus; et isiiErrori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. ¶But he would never have allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as Juvenal explains it—
¶Canibus pigris, scabieque vetustdLavibus, et sicca- lambentibus ora luccrntt,Nomen erit, Pardus, Tigris, Leo; si quid adhuc estQuod (remit in terris violentius. ¶Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress—
¶Nigra n*\lxpoot est, immunda et joetida txoauotBalba loqui non quit, TpavXi^u; muta pudens est, etc ¶But to drive it ad /Ethiopetn cygnum is not to be endured. I leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other side, and without further considering him, than I have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquaint the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr. Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry—
¶Vos exemplaria GracaNocturnd versate manu, versate diurn/L ¶Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. I could give an instance in the Oedipus Tyrannus, which was the masterpiece of Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have disencumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I must not be [20]over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony rnd Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this kind.
Prologue
¶WHAT flocks of critics hover here to-day,As vultures wait on armies for their prey,All gaping for the carcase of a play IWith croaking notes they bode some dire event,And follow dying poets by the scent.Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time:He fights this day unarmed,—without his rhyme;—And brings a tale which often has been told;As sad as Dido's; and almost as old.His hero, whom you wits his bully call,Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all;He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind;Weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind.In short, a pattern, and companion fit,For all the keeping Tonies of the pit.I could name more: a wife, and mistress too;Both (to be plain) too good for most of you:The wife well-natured, and the mistress true.Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,Allow him all the candour you can spare.A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day;Like Hectors in at every petty fray.Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,They've need to show that they can think at all;Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;He who would search for pearls, must dive below.Fops may have leave to level all they can;As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light,We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts,For change, become their next poor tenant's guests;Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls,And snatch the homely rasher from the coals:So you, retiring from much better cheer,[22]For once, may venture to do penance here.And since that plenteous autumn now is past,Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste,Take in good part, from our poor poet's board,Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford. All for LoveThe World Well LostA TragedyDramatis Person/e
¶MARK ANTONY. ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch.
¶VENTIDIUS, his General. SERAPION, Priest of Isis.DOLABELLA, his Friend. MYRIS, another Priest.Servants to Antony.CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt. CHARMION, latra's Maids.OCTAVIA, Antony's Wife. IRAS,Antony's two little Daughters. Scene.—a Lexandria.Act I
¶SCENE I.—The Temple of Isis.Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of IsisSerapion P So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, OR TENTS and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrentThat the wild deluge overtook the hasteEven of the hinds that watched it: Men and beastsWere borne above the tops of trees, that grewOn the utmost margin of the water-mark.Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward,It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:Here monstrous phocac panted on the shore;Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails,[24]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 themMyr. Avert these omens, Heaven!Scrap. 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 lastReared his inglorious head. A peal of groansThen followed, and a lamentable voiceCried, 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 dreamed you this ? or did invent the story,[Showing himself.To frighten our Egyptian boys withal,And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?Scrap. My lord, I saw you not,Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but whatI uttered was most true.Alex. A foolish dream,Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,And holy luxury.Scrap. I know my duty:This goes no further.Alex. 'Tis not fit it should;Nor would the times now bear it, were it true.All southern, from yon hills, the Roman campHangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm[25]Just breaking on our heads.Scrap. 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.Scrap. Yet the foeSeems not to press the siege.Alex. Oh, there's the wonder.Maecenas and Agrippa, who can mostWith Carsar, 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.Scrap. '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 absenceTo cure his mind of love.Scrap. If he be vanquished,Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to beA Roman province; and our plenteous harvestsMust then redeem the scarceness of their soil.While Antony stood firm, our AlexandriaRivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat),And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,Could fix an equal foot of empire here.Alex. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature,Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish,—perishEach by the other's sword; But, since our willIs lamely followed by our power, we mustDepend on one; with him to rise or fall.Scrap. How stands the queen affected?Alex. Oh, she dotes,[26]She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man,And winds herself about his mighty ruins;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 knowThe state of things; no more of your ill omensAnd black prognostics; labour to confirmThe people's hearts. ¶Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with aGentleman of ANTONY'SScrap. These Romans will o'erhear us.But who's that stranger? By his warlike port,His fierce demeanour, and erected look,He's of no vulgar note.Alex. Oh, 'tis Ventidius,Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East,Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered.When Antony returned from Syria last,He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.Scrap. You seem to know him well.Alex. Too well. I saw him at 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 presidesO'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 illTo our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better;[27]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 VEN TIDIUS, 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 presence.Vent. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits,Give him new life.Gent. He sees not Cleopatra.Vent. Would he had never seen her!Gent. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no useOf anything, 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 loudThe boy Octavius; then he draws his mouthInto 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 narrowFor his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,And bounds into a vice, that bears him farFrom his first course, and plunges him in ills:But, when his danger makes him find his faults,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 advance,Proclaim your orders loudly.Scrap. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command.Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;[28]To pomp and triumphs give this happy day,That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's.Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live!Be this the general voice sent up to heavenAnd every public place repeat this echo.Vent. Fine pageantry! [Aside.Scrap. Set out before your doorsThe images of all your sleeping fathers,With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts,And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priestsDo present sacrifice; pour out the wine,And call the gods to join with you in gladness.Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joylCan they be friends of Antony, who revelWhen Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame,You Romans, your great grandsires' images,For fear their souls should animate their marbles,To blush at their degenerate progeny.Alex. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony,Would mark the day with honours, when all heavenLaboured for him, when each propitious starStood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hourAnd shed his better influence. Her own birthdayOur queen neglected like a vulgar fate,That passed obscurely by.Vent. Would it had slept,Divided far from his; till some remoteAnd future age had called it out, to ruinSome other prince, not him!Alex. Your emperor,Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, thanTo upbraid my queen for loving him too well.Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priestlHe 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[29]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 ?O 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 pitifulThan 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 prayAnd keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.
¶Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands,On pain of death, that none presume to stay,i Gent. I dare not disobey him.[Going out with the other.Vent. Well, I dare.But I'll observe him first unseen, and findWhich way his humour drives: The rest I'll venture.[ Withdraws.[30]Enter ANTONY , walking with a disturbed motionbefore he speaksAnt. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep itWith 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 Caesar?Vent, [aside]. On my soul,'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful IAnt. Count thy gains.Now , Antony, wouldst thou be born for this?Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youthHas starved thy wanting age.Vent. How sorrow shakes him! [Aside.So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,And on the ground extends the noble ruin.[ ANTONY having thrown himself down.Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor;The place thou pressest on thy mother earthIs all thy empire now: now it contains thee;Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,Shrunk to a few 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 Caesar;Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep,To see his rival of the universeLie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.Ant. Give me some music, look that it be sad.I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,And burst myself with sighing.— [Soft music.'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancyI'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;[31]Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,I lean my head upon the mossy bark,And look just of a piece as I grew from it;My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brookRuns at my foot.Vent. Methinks I fancyMyself there too.Ant. The herd come jumping by me,And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,And take me for their fellow-citizen.More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts.\Sojt music again.Vent. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.[Stands before him.Ant. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius?Vent. Are you Antony?I'm liker what I was, than you to himI left you last.Ant. I'm angry.Vent. So am I.Ant. I would be private: leave me .Vent. Sir, I love you,And therefore will not leave you.Ant. Will not leave me!Where have you learnt that answer ? Who am I ?Vent. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven:If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:You're all that's good, and god-like.Ant. All that's wretched.You will not leave me then?Vent. 'Twas too presumingTo say I would not; but I dare not leave you:And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me henceSo soon, when I so far have come to see you.Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?[32]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 nowMy mother comes afresh into my eyes;I cannot help her softness.Ant. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!The big round drops course one another downThe 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 notFor my own griefs, but thine.—Nay, father!Vent. Emperor.Ant. Emperor! Why , that's the style of victory;The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,Salutes his general so; but never moreShall 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,—Vent. So has Julius done.Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st;For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly.But Antony—Vent. Nay, stop not.Ant. Antony—Well, thou wilt have it,—like a coward, fled,[33]Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.Vent. I did.Ant. I'll help thee.—I have been a man, Ventidius.Vent. Yes, and a brave one! but—Ant. I know thy meaning.But I have lost my reason, have disgracedThe 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 borneOn tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;The wish of nations, and the willing worldReceived 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 alreadyOf what you've done, too conscious of your failings;And, like a scorpion, whipt by others firstTo fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.Ant. I know thou would'st.Vent. I will.Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha![34]Vent. You laugh.Ant. I do, to see officious love,Give cordials to the dead.Vent. You would be lost, then?Ant. I am.Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune.Ant. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate,Without just cause? No , when I found all lostBeyond repair, I hid me from the world,And learnt to scorn it here; which now I doSo heartily, I think it is not worthThe cost of keeping.Vent. Caesar thinks not so;He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.You would be killed like Tully, would you? do,Hold out your throat to Caesar, 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 hoursIn desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.Up , up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,And long to call you chief: By painful journeysI 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 ratesThan 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,[35]To double my despair ? They're mutinous.Vent. Most firm and loyal.Ant. Yet they will not marchTo succour me. O trifler!Vent. They petitionYou 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 desireA better reason.Ant. I have never usedMy soldiers to demand a reason ofMy 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 Cleopatra.Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer,And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms,Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels,And calls this diamond such or such a tax;Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licenceOn all my other faults; but, on your life,No word of Cleopatra: she deservesMore worlds than I can lose.Vent. Behold, you Powers,To whom you have intrusted humankind!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 awayTo none but wasteful hands.Ant. You grow presumptuous.Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence![36]Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor;Who , under seeming honesty, hast ventedThe burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall.0 that thou wert my equal; great in armsAs the first Caesar was, that I might kill theeWithout a stain to honour!Vent. You may kill me;You have done more already,—called me traitor.Ant. Art thou not one?Vent. For showing you yourself,Which none else durst have done? but had I beenThat 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 eaglesTo fill Octavius' bands? I could have beenA traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,And not have been so called.Ant. Forgive me, soldier;I've 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 unkindnessHas left your sword no work.Ant. I did not think so;I said it in my rage: Pr'ythee, forgive me.Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discoveryOf what I would not hear ?Vent. No prince but youCould merit that sincerity I used,Nor durst another man have ventured it;But you, ere love misled your wandering 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, wonderedAt their own skill, and cried—A lucky hitHas mended our design. Their envy hindered,[37]Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,When Heaven would work for ostentation's sakeTo 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 wordlMay I believe you love me? Speak again.Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this.[Hugging him.Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve 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. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I loveBeyond 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 beatThe Parthians, cry aloud—Come, follow me!Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor! in that wordOctavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,And, if I have ten years behind, take all:I'll thank you for the exchange.Ant. O Cleopatra!Vent. Again?Ant. I've done: In that last sigh she went.Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a loverFrom all he holds most dear.Vent. Methinks, you breatheAnother soul: Your looks are more divine;[38]You speak a hero, and you move a god.Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,And mans each part about me : Once again,That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;That eagerness with which I darted upwardTo Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hillOpposed my way; in vain a war of spearsSung round my head, and planted on my shield;I won the trenches, while my foremost menLagged 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 longOnce 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 passage,And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield,Begin the noble harvest of the field. [Exeunt Act IIEnter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS
¶Cleo. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn?Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go.Alex. He goes to fight for you.Cleo. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight:Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost,And all my hopes destroyed.Alex. Does this weak passionBecome a mighty queen ?Cleo. I am no queen:Is this to be a queen, to be besiegedBy yon insulting Roman, and to waitEach hour the victor's chain? These ills are small:For Antony is lost, and I can mournFor nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius,[39]I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands;I'm fit to be a captive: AntonyHas taught my mind the fortune of a slave.Iras. Call reason to assist you.Cleo. I have none,And none would have: My love's a noble madness,Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrowFits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man :But I have loved with such transcendent passion,I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,And now am lost above it. No , I'm proud'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me nowThink you he would not sigh, though he must leave meSure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured,And bears a tender heart: I know him well.Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once,But now 'tis past.Iras. Let it be past with you:Forget him, madam.Cleo. Never, never, Iras.He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone,Leaves a faint image of possession still.Alex. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful.Cleo. I cannot: If I could, those thoughts were vain.Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be,I still must love him. ¶Enter CHARMIONNow , what news, my Charmion ?Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me?Am I to live, or die?—nay, do I live?Or am I dead ? for when he gave his answer,Fate took the word, and then I lived or died.Char. I found him, madam—Cleo. A long speech preparing?If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me,For never was more need.[40]Iras. I know he loves you.Cleo. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so,Before her tongue could speak it: Now she studies,To soften what he said; but give me death,Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised,And in the words he spoke.Char. I found him, then,Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues;So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood,While awfully he cast his eyes about,And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed:Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased.When he beheld me struggling in the crowd,He blushed, and bade make way.Alex. There's comfort yet.Char. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passageSeverely, as he meant to frown me back,And sullenly gave place: I told my message,Just as you gave it, broken and disordered;I numbered in it all your sighs and tears,And while I moved your pitiful request,That you but only begged a last farewell,He fetched an inward groan; and every timeI named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking,But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down :He seemed not now that awful Antony,Who shook an armed assembly with his nod;But, making show as he would rub his eyes,Disguised and blotted out a falling tear.Cleo. Did he then weep ? And was I worth a tear ?If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing,Tell men o more, but let me die contented.Char. He bid me say,—He knew himself so well,He could deny you nothing, if he saw you;And therefore—Cleo. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me?Char. And therefore begged you not to use a power,[41]Which he could ill resist; yet he should everRespect you, as he ought.Cleo. Is that a wordFor Antony to use to Cleopatra?O that faint word, respect! how I disdain it!Disdain myself, for loving after it!He should have kept that word for cold Octavia.Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing,That dull, insipid lump, without desires,And without power to give them ?Alex. You misjudge;You see through love, and that deludes your sight;As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water:But I, who bear my reason undisturbed,Can see this Antony, this dreaded man,A fearful slave, who fain would run away,And shuns his master's eyes: If you pursue him,My life on't, he still drags a chain along.That needs must clog his flight.Cleo. Could I believe thee!—Alex. By every circumstance I know he loves.True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour;Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts outMany a long look for succour.Cleo. He sends word,He fears to see my face.Alex. And would you more?He shows his weakness who declines the combat,And you must urge your fortune. Could he speakMore plainly? To my ears, the message sounds—Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come;Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant:See me, and give me a pretence to leave him!—I hear his trumpets. This way he must pass.Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first,That he may bend more easy.Cleo. You shall rule me;[42]But all, I fear, in vain. [Exit with CHARMION and IRAS.Alex. I fear so too;Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold;But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it![ Withdraws. ¶Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then enterANTONY with VENTIDIUS, followed by other CommandersAnt. Octavius is the minion of blind chance,But holds from virtue nothing.Vent. Has he courage?Ant. But just enough to season him from coward.Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge,The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures( As in Illyria once, they say, he did,To storm a town ) , 'tis when he cannot choose;When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him;And then he lives on that for seven years after;But, at a close revenge he never fails.Vent. I heard you challenged him.Ant. I did, Ventidius.What think'st thou was his answer? 'Twas so tame!—He said, he had more ways than one to die;I had not.Vent. Poor!Ant. He has more ways than one;But he would choose them all before that one.Vent. He first would choose an ague, or a fever.Ant. No ; it must be an ague, not a fever;He has not warmth enough to die by that.Vent. Or old age and a bed.Ant. Ay, there's his choice,He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink,And crawl the utmost verge of life.O Hercules! Why should a man like this,Who dares not trust his fate for one great action,Be all the care of Heaven? Why should he lord it[43]O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each oneIs braver than himself?Vent. You conquered for him:Philippi knows it; there you shareJ with himThat empire, which your sword made all your own .Ant. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wingsI bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring,And now he mounts above me.Good heavens, is this,—is this the man who braves me?Who bids my age make way? Drives me before him,To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish?Vent. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all.Ant. Then give the word to march:I long to leave this prison of a town,To join thy legions; and, in open field,Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer. ¶Enter ALEXASAlex. Great emperor,In mighty arms renowned above mankind,But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god;This message sends the mournful CleopatraTo her departing lord.Vent. Smooth sycophant!Alex. A thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers,Millions of blessings wait you to the wars;Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too,And would have sentAs many dear embraces to your arms,As many parting kisses to your lips;But those, she fears, have wearied you already.Vent, [aside]. False crocodile!Alex. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her;That were a wish too mighty for her hopes,Too presumingFor her low fortune, and your ebbing love;That were a wish for her more prosperous days,[44]Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness.Ant. [aside]. Well, I must man it out:—What would thequeen?Alex. First, to these noble warriors, who attendYour daring courage in the chase of fame,—Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,—She humbly recommends all she holds dear,All her own cares and fears,—the care of you.Vent. Yes, witness Actium.Ant. Let him speak, Ventidius.Alex. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward,With ardour too heroic, on his foes,Fall down, as she would do, before his feet;Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death:Tell him, this god is not invulnerable;That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him;And, that you may remember her petition,She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn,Which, at your wished return, she will redeem[Gives jewels to the Commanders.With all the wealth of Egypt:This to the great Ventidius she presents,Whom she can never count her enemy,Because he loves her lord.Vent. Tell her, I'll none on't;I'm not ashamed of honest poverty;Not all the diamonds of the east can bribeVentidius from his faith. I hope to seeThese and the rest of all her sparkling store,Where they shall more deservingly be placed.Ant. And who must wear them then?Vent. The wronged Octavia.Ant. You might have spared that word.Vent. And he that bribe.Ant. But have I no remembrance?Alex. Yes, a dear one;Your slave the queen—[45]Ant. My mistress.Alex. Then your mistress;Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul,But that you had long since; she humbly begsThis ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts,The emblems of her own, may bind your arm.[Presenting a bracelet.Vent. Now , my best lord,—in honour's name, I ask you,For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,—Touch not these poisoned gifts,Infected by the sender; touch them not;Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them,And more than aconite has dipt the silk.Ant. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius:A lady's favours may be worn with honour.What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul.When I lie pensive in my tent alone,'Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights,To tell these pretty beads upon my arm,To count for every one a soft embrace,A melting kiss at such and such a time:And now and then the fury of her love,When And what harm's in this?Alex. None, none, my lord,But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever.Ant. [going to tie it]. We soldiers are so awkward—helpme tie it.Alex. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkwardIn these affairs: so are all men indeed:Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak?Ant. Yes, freely.Alex. Then, my lord, fair hands aloneAre fit to tie it; she, who sent it can.Vent. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you.You will not see her?[ALEXAS whispers an Attendant, who goes out.Ant. But to take my leave.[46]Vent. Then I have washed an ^Ethiop. You're undone;Y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed:Her eyes do Caesar's work.Ant. You fear too soon.I'm constant to myself: I know my strength;And yet she shall not think me barbarous neitherBorn in the depths of Afric: I am a Roman,Bred in the rules of soft humanity.A guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell.Vent. You do not knowHow weak you are to her, how much an infant:You are not proof against a smile, or glance;A sigh will quite disarm you.Ant. See, she comes!Now you shall find your error.—Gods, I thank you:I formed the danger greater than it was,And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened.Vent. Mark the end yet. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS
¶Ant. Well, madam, we are met.Cleo. Is this a meeting?Then, we must part ?Ant. We must.Cleo. Who says we must?Ant. Our own hard fates.Cleo. We make those fates ourselves.Ant. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other,Into our mutual ruin.Cleo. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes;I have no friends in heaven; and all the world,As 'twere the business of mankind to part us,Is armed against my love: even you yourselfJoin with the rest; you, you are armed against me.Ant. I will be justified in all I doTo late posterity, and therefore hear me.If I mix a lie[47]With any truth, reproach me freely with it;Else, favour me with silence.Cleo. You command me,And I am dumb.Vent. I like this well; he shows authority.Ant. That I derive my ruinFrom you aloneCleo. O heavens! I ruin you!Ant. You promised me your silence, and you break itEre I have scarce begun.Cleo. Well, I obey you.Ant. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt.Ere Caesar saw your eyes, you gave me love,And were too young to know it; that I settledYour father in his throne, was for your sake;I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen.Caesar stept in, and, with a greedy hand,Plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red,Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord,And was, beside, too great for me to rival;But, I deserved you first, though he enjoyed you.When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia,An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you.Cleo. I cleared myselfAnt. Again you break your promise.I loved you still, and took your weak excuses,Took you into my bosom, stained by Caesar,And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you,And hid me from the business of the world,Shut out inquiring nations from my sight,To give whole years to you.Vent. Yes, to your shame be't spoken. [Aside.Ant. How I loved.Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours,That danced away with down upon your feet,As all your business were to count my passion!One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;[48]Another came, and still 'twas only love:The suns were wearied out with looking on,And I untired with loving.I saw you every day, and all the day;And every day was still but as the first,So eager was 1 still to see you more.Vent. 'Tis all too true.Ant. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,( As she indeed had reason) raised a warIn Italy, to call me back.Vent. But yetYou went not.Ant. While within your arms I lay,The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour,And left me scarce a grasp—I thank your love for't.Vent. Well pushed: that last was home.Cleo. Yet may I speak ?Ant. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not.Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died,(Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died);To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth,And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady,Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her.You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons:This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours.I would have fought by land, where I was stronger;You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea,Forsook me fighting; and ( O stain to honour IO lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled;But fled to follow you.Vent. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails!And , to appear magnificent in flight,Drew half our strength away.Ant. All this you caused.And, would you multiply more ruins on me?This honest man, my best, my only friend,[49]Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes;Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits.And you have watched the news, and bring your eyesTo seize them too. If you have aught to answer,Now speak, you have free leave.Alex, [aside]. She stands confounded:Despair is in her eyes.Vent. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage:Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions;'Tis like they shall be sold.Cleo. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,Already have condemned me? Shall I bringThe love you bore me for my advocate?That now is turned against me, that destroys me;For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten;But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lordTo ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty.But, could I once have thought it would have pleased youThat you would pry, with narrow searching eyes,Into my faults, severe to my destruction,And watching all advantages with care,That serve to make me wretched ? Speak, my lord,For I end here. Though I deserved this usage.Was it like you to give it ?Ant. Oh, you wrong me,To think I sought this parting, or desiredTo accuse you more than what will clear myself,And justify this breach.Cleo. Thus low I thank you;And, since my innocence will not offend,I shall not blush to own it.Vent. After this,I think she'll blush at nothing.Cleo. You seem grieved( And therein you are kind) that Caesar firstEnjoyed my love, though you deserved it better:I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you;[50]For, had I first been yours, it would have savedMy second choice: I never had been his,And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first,You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord:He first possessed my person; you, my love:Caesar loved me; but I loved Antony.If I endured him after, 'twas becauseI judged it due to the first name of men;And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant,What he would take by force.Vent. O Syren! Syren!Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true,Has she not ruined you? I still urge that,The fatal consequence.Cleo. The consequence indeed—For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe,To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you,And kept you far from an uneasy wife,—Such Fulvia was.Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me ; —And, can you blame me to receive that love,Which quitted such desert, for worthless me?How often have I wished some other Caesar,Great as the first, and as the second young,Would court my love, to be refused for you!Vent. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium.Cleo. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselledTo fight at sea; but I betrayed you not.I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear;Would I had been a man, not to have feared!For none would then have envied me your friendship,Who envy me your love.Ant. We are both unhappy:If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us.Speak; would you have me perish by my stay?Cleo. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go ;If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish—[51]Tis a hard word—but stay.Vent. See now the effects of her so boasted love!She strives to drag you down to ruin with her;But, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soonWould she let go her hold, and haste to shore,And never look behind!Cleo. Then judge my love by this.[Giving ANTONY a writing.Could I have borneA life or death, a happiness or woe,From yours divided, this had given me means.Ant. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius!I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand,Young as it was, that led the way to mine,And left me but the second place in murder.—See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt,And joins all Syria to it, as a present;So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes,And join her arms with his.Cleo. And yet you leave me!You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you,Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom;That is a trifle;For I could part with life, with anything,But only you. Oh, let me die but with you!Is that a hard request ?Ant. Next living with you,'Tis all that Heaven can give.Alex. He melts; we conquer. [Aside.Cleo. No ; you shall go: your interest calls you hence;Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for theseWeak arms to hold you here. [Ta^es his hand.Go ; leave me, soldier(For you're no more a lover): leave me dying:Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom,And, when your march begins, let one run after,Breathless almost for joy, and cry—She's dead.[52]The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh,And muster all your Roman gravity:Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up,As I had never been.Ant. Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear.Cleo. What is't for me then,A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover?—Here let me breathe my last: envy me notThis minute in your arms: I'll die apace,As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble.Ant. Die! rather let me perish; loosened natureLeap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven,And fall the skies, to crush the nether world!My eyes, my soul, my all! [Embraces her.Vent. And what's this toy,In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?Ant. What is't, Ventidius?—it outweighs them all;Why , we have more than conquered Caesar now:My queen's not only innocent, but loves me.This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin!"But, could she 'scape without me, with what hasteWould she let slip her hold, and make to shore,And never look behind!"Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.Vent. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go?Ant. Go! whither? Go from all that's excellent?Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,That I should go from her, who sets my loveAbove the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods,Give to your boy, your Caesar,This rattle of a globe to play withal,This g e w g a w world, and put him cheaply off:I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.Cleo. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy,That I shall do some wild extravaganceOf love, in public; and the foolish world,[53]Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.Vent. O women! women ! women! all the godsHave not such power of doing good to man,As you of doing harm. [Exit.Ant. Our men are armed:—Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp:I would revenge the treachery he meant me ;And long security makes conquest easy.I'm eager to return before I go ;For, all the pleasures I have known beat thickOn my remembrance.—How I long for night!That both the sweets of mutual love may try,And triumph once o'er Caesar ere we die. [Exeunt. Act III
¶one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of Egyptians: at the other ANTONY and Romans. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on ANTONY'S part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of Egyptians. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns
Antony.
¶Ant. I thought how those white arms would fold me in,And strain me close, and melt me into love;So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards,And added all my strength to every blow.Cleo. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms!You've been too long away from my embraces;But, when I have you fast, and all my own,With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs,I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you,And mark you red with many an eager kiss.Ant. My brighter Venus!Cleo. O my greater Mars!Ant. Thou join'st us well, my love!Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains,[54]Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword,And mountain-tops paired off each other blow,To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess!Let Caesar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan,In thy embraces I would be beheldBy heaven and earth at once;And make their envy what they meant their sport?Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,With awful state, regardless of their frowns,As their superior gods.There's no satiety of love in thee:Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual springIs in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;And I grow rich by giving. ¶Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apartAlex. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes!He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs;But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on,As envying your success.Ant. Now , on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me :He never flattered me in any vice,But awes me with his virtue: even this minuteMethinks, he has a right of chiding me.Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence;It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest.[As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him bythe robe.Vent. Emperor!Ant. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me.[Looking bac\.Vent. But this one hearing, emperor.Ant. Let goMy robe; or, by my father Hercules—Vent. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater,I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.[55]Ant. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here,And I'll return.Vent. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him ;I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him :His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes,As would confound their choice to punish one,And not reward the other. ¶Enter ANTONYAnt. We can conquer,You see, without your aid.We have dislodged their troops;They look on us at distance, and, like cursScaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off,And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,Lie breathless on the plain.Vent. 'Tis well; and he,Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more.Yet if, by this advantage, you could gainAn easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chanceOf arms—Ant. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius!The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace;His malice is considerate in advantage.Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch,He kills, and keeps his temper.Vent. Have you no friendIn all his army, who has power to move him?Maecenas, or Agrippa, might do much.Ant. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests.We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish.Vent. Fain I would find some other.Ant. Thank thy love.Some four or five such victories as thisWill save thy further pains.[56]Vent. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard:I know, sir, you have conquered against odds;But still you draw supplies from one poor town,And of Egyptians: he has all the world,And, at his beck, nations come pouring in,To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again.Ant. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to searchFor foreign aids?—to hunt my memory,And range all o'er a waste and barren place,To find a friend? The wretched have no friends.Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome,Whom Carsar loves beyond the love of women :He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax,From that hard rugged image melt him down,And mould him in what softer form he pleased.Vent. Him would I see; that man, of all the world;Just such a one we want.Ant. He loved me too;I was his soul; he lived not but in me:We were so closed within each other's breasts,The rivets were not found, that joined us first.That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt,As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost;We were one mass; we could not give or take,But from the same; for he was I, I he.Vent. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.Ant. After this,I need not tell his name;—'twas Dolabella.Vent. He's now in Caesar's camp.Ant. No matter where,Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly,That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight,Because I feared he loved her: he confessed,He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled;For 'twere impossible that two, so one,Should not have loved the same. When he departed,He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.[57]Vent. It argues, that he loved you more than her,Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous,And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you.Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now.Vent. PerhapsHe has thus long been labouring for your peace.Ant. Would he were here!Vent. Would you believe he loved you?I read your answer in your eyes, you would.Not to conceal it longer, he has sentA messenger from Caesar's camp, with letters.Ant. Let him appear.Vent. I'll bring him instantly.[Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with Dolabella.
¶Ant. Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship![Runs to embrace him.Art thou returned at last, my better half ?Come, give me all myself!Let me not live,If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,Was ever half so fond.Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busyAbout a nobler work: she's new come home,Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'erEach room, a stranger to her own, to lookIf all be safe.Ant. Thou hast what's left of me ;For I am now so sunk from what I was,Thou find'st meat my lowest water-mark.The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,Are all dried up, or take another course:What I have left is from my native spring;I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,And lifts me to my banks.Dola. Still you are lord of all the world to me.Ant. Why , then I yet am so; for thou art all.[58]If I had any joy when thou wert absent,I grudged it to myself; methought I robbedThee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella!Thou hast beheld me other than I am.Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filledWith sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me?With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,To worship my uprising?—menial kingsRan coursing up and down my palace-yard,Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes,And, at my least command, all started out,Like racers to the goal.Dola. Slaves to your fortune.Ant. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I?Vent. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter.Ant. Is this friendly done?Dola. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him;Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide;Why am I else your friend?Ant. Take heed, young man,How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes,And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember,When , swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,As accessary to thy brother's death?Dola. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day,And still the blush hangs here.Ant. To clear herself,For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed,The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold;The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.Dola. No more; I would not hear it.Ant. Oh, you must!She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,And cast a look so languishingly sweet,[59]As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds,That played about her face. But if she smiledA darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,But hung upon the object: To soft flutesThe silver oars kept time; and while they played,The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat moreFor she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowdsStood panting on the shore, and wanted breathTo give their welcome voice.Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul?Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder?Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyesAnd whisper in my ear—Oh, tell her notThat I accused her with my brother's death ?Dola. And should my weakness be a plea for yours ?Mine was an age when love might be excused,When kindly warmth, and when my springing youthMade it a debt to nature. Yours—Vent. Speak boldly.Yours, he would say, in your declining age,When no more heat was left but what you forced,When all the sap was needful for the trunk,When it went down, then you constrained the course,And robbed from nature, to supply desire;In you (I would not use so harsh a word)'Tis but plain dotage.Ant. Ha!Dola. 'Twas urged too home.—But yet the loss was private, that I made;'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions;I had no world to lose, no people's love.Ant. This from a friend?Dola. Yes, Antony, a true one;[60]A friend so tender, that each word I speakStabs my own heart, before it reach your ear.Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide!To Caesar I excuse you.Ant. O ye gods!Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar?Dola. As to your equal.Ant. Well, he's but my equal:While I wear this he never shall be more.Dola. I bring conditions from him.Ant. Are they noble?Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet heIs full of deep dissembling; knows no honourDivided from his interest. Fate mistook him;For nature meant him for an usurer:He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.Vent. Then, granting this,What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temperTo honourable terms?Ant. It was my Dolabella, or some god.Dola. Nor I, nor yet Maecenas, nor Agrippa:They were your enemies; and I, a friend,Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed.Ant. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man,Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour;Let me but see his face.Vent. That task is mine,And , Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [Exit VENT .Dola. You'll rememberTo whom you stand obliged?Ant. When I forget itBe thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse.My queen shall thank him too,Dola. I fear she will not.Ant. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella!Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?Dola. I would not see her lost.[61]Ant. When I forsake her,Leave me my better stars! for she has truthBeyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her,At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me;But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest meFor loving her too well. Could I do so?Dola. Yes; there's my reason. ¶Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leadingANTONY'S two little DaughtersAnt. Where?—Octavia there! [Starting bac\.Vent. What, is she poison to you?—a disease?Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:Are they all strangers to your eyes? has natureNo secret call, no whisper they are yours?Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive themWith kinder eyes. If you confess a man,Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings,To bear you to them; and your eyes dart outAnd aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.Vent. I sent for them; I brought them in unknownTo Cleopatra's guards.Dola. Yet, are you cold ?Octav. Thus long I have attended for my welcome;Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.Who am I ?Ant. Caesar's sister.Octav. That's unkind.Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister,Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp:But your Octavia, your much injured wife,Though banished from your bed, driven from your house,In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours.'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,[62]And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride.I come to claim you as my own ; to showMy duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness:Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it.[Taking hit hand.Vent. Do , take it; thou deserv'st it.Dola. On my soul,And so she does: she's neither too submissive,Nor yet too haughty; but so just a meanShows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life.Octav. Begged it, my lord?Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress;Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.Octav. Poorly and basely I could never beg:Nor could my brother grant.Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall downAnd cry,—Forgive me, Caesar! Shall I setA man, my equal, in the place of Jove,As he could give me being? No ; that word,Forgive, would choke me up,And die upon my tongue.Dola. You shall not need it.Ant. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,—My friend too!—to receive some vile conditions.My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears;And now I must become her branded slave.In every peevish mood, she will upbraidThe life she gave: if I but look awry,She cries—I'll tell my brother.Octav. My hard fortuneSubjects me still to your unkind mistakes.But the conditions I have brought are such,You need not blush to take: I love your honour,Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said,[63]Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe;For, though my brother bargains for your love,Makes me the price and cement of your peace,I have a soul like yours; I cannot takeYour love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;He shall draw back his troops, and you shall marchTo rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;No matter where. I never will complain,But only keep the barren name of wife,And rid you of the trouble.Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour!Both scorn to be obliged.Dola. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest|part;Apart.See how he reddens with despite and shame,To be outdone in generosity!Vent. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear, |That fain would fall!Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praiseThe greatness of your soul;But cannot yield to what you have proposed:For I can ne'er be conquered but by love;And you do all for duty. You would free me,And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?Octav. It was, my lord.Ant. Then I must be obligedTo one who loves me not; who, to herself,May call me thankless and ungrateful man : —I'll not endure it; no.Vent. I am glad it pinches there. [Aside.Octav. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue?That pride was all I had to bear me up;That you might think you owed me for your life,And owed it to my duty, not my love.I have been injured, and my haughty soul[64]Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed.Ant. Therefore you love me not.Octav. Therefore, my lord,I should not love you.Ant. Therefore you would leave me ?Octav. And therefore I should leave you—if I could.Dola. Her soul's too great, after such injuries,To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it.Her modesty aud silence plead her cause.Ant. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn?I find a secret yielding in my soul;But Cleopatra, who would die with me,Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia;But does it not plead more for Cleopatra?Vent. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia;For Cleopatra, neither.One would be ruined with you; but she firstHad ruined you: The other, you have ruined,And yet she would preserve you.In everything their merits are unequal.Ant. O my distracted soul!Octav. Sweet Heaven compose it!—Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you,Methinks you should accept it. Look on these;Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected,As they are mine? Go to him, children, go ;Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him;For you may speak, and he may own you too,Without a blush; and so he cannot allHis children: go, I say, and pull him to me,And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman.You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms;And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist:If he will shake you off, if he will dash youAgainst the pavement, you must bear it, children;For you are mine, and I was born to suffer.[Here the Children go to him, etc.[65]Vent. Was ever sight so moving?—Emperor!Dola. Friend!Octav. Husband!Both Child. Father!Ant. I am vanquished: take me,Octavia; take me, children; share me all.[Embracing them.I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves,And run out much, in riot, from your stock;But all shall be amended.Octav. O blest hour!Dola. O happy change!Vent. My joy stops at my tongue;But it has found two channels here for one,And bubbles out above.Ant. [to OCTAV.]. This is thy triumph; lead me where thouwilt;Even to thy brother's camp.Octav. All there are yours. ¶Enter ALEXAS hastilyAlex. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours—Ant. 'Tis past.—Octavia, you shall stay this night: To-morrow,Caesar and we are one. ¶[Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the ¶Children follow.Vent. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch,Be sure to be the first; haste forward:Haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [Exit.Alex. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero,This blunt, unthinking instrument of death,With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit.Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy;The luxury of others robbed my cradle,And ravished thence the promise of a man.Cast out from nature, disinherited[66]Of what her meanest children claim by kind,Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone.Had Cleopatra followed my advice,Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes.She dies for love; but she has known its joys:Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys,Must die, because she loves? ¶Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train0 madam, I have seen what blasts my eyeslOctavia's here.Cleo. Peace with that raven's note.I know it too; and now am inThe pangs of death.Alex. You are no more a queen;Egypt is lost.Cleo. What tell'st thou me of Egypt ?My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!—0 fatal name to Cleopatra's love IMy kisses, my embraces now are hers;While I—But thou hast seen my rival; speak,Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair?Bright as a goddess? and is all perfectionConfined to her? It is. Poor I was madeOf that coarse matter, which, when she was finished,The gods threw by for rubbish.Alex. She is indeed a very miracle.Cleo. Death to my hopes, a miracle!Alex. A miracle; [Bowing.I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam,You make all wonders cease.Cleo. I was too rash:Take this in part of recompense. But, oh! [Giving a ring.I fear thou flatterest me.Char. She comes! she's here!Iras. Fly, madam, Caesar's sister!Cleo. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove,[67]And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes,Thus would I face my rival. [Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA
¶bears up to her. Their Trains come up oneither side.Octav. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra;Your haughty carriage—Cleo. Shows I am a queen:Nor need I ask you, who you are.Octav. A Roman:A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.Cleo. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman.Octav. He was a Roman, till he lost that name,To be a slave in Egypt; but I comeTo free him thence.Cleo. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno.When he grew weary of that household clog,He chose my easier bonds.Octav. I wonder notYour bonds are easy: you have long been practisedIn that lascivious art: He's not the firstFor whom you spread your snares: Let Caesar witness.Cleo. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but gratitudeI paid his love: The worst your malice can,Is but to say the greatest of mankindHas been my slave. The next, but far above himIn my esteem, is he whom law calls yours,But whom his love made mine.Octav. I would view nearer [Coming up close to her.That face, which has so long usurped my right,To find the inevitable charms, that catchMankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord.Cleo. Oh, you do well to search; for had you knownBut half these charms, you had not lost his heart.Octav. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady,Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex,Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments,[68]That make sin pleasing?Cleo. You may blush, who want them.If bounteous nature, if indulgent HeavenHave given me charms to please the bravest man,Should I not thank them? Should I be ashamed,And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me;And, when I love not him, Heaven change this faceFor one like that.Octav. Thou lov'st him not so well.Cleo. I love him better, and deserve him more.Octav. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin.Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra?Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra?At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra.Who made his children orphans, and poor meA wretched widow ? only Cleopatra.Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra.If you have suffered, I have suffered more.You bear the specious title of a wife,To gild your cause, and draw the pitying worldTo favour it: the world condemns poor me.For I have lost my honour, lost my fame,And stained the glory of my royal house,And all to bear the branded name of mistress.There wants but life, and that too I would loseFor him I love.Octav. Be't so, then; take thy wish. [Exit with her Train.Cleo. And 'tis my wish,Now he is lost for whom alone I lived.My sight grows dim, and every object dances,And swims before me, in the maze of death.My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up;They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn!But now she's gone, they faint.Alex. Mine have had leisureTo recollect their strength, and furnish counsel,To ruin her, who else must ruin you.[69]Cleo. Vain promiser!Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras.My grief has weight enough to sink you both.Conduct me to some solitary chamber,And draw the curtains round;Then leave me to myself, to take aloneMy fill of grief:There I till death will his unkindness weep;As harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [Exeunt. Act IV
¶Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA ¶Dola. Why would you shift it from yourself on me?Can you not tell her, you must part?Ant. I cannot.I could pull out an eye, and bid it go,And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella,How many deaths are in this word, Depart!I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:One look of hers would thaw me into tears,And I should melt, till I were lost again.Dola. Then let Ventidius;He's rough by nature.Ant. Oh, he'll speak too harshly;He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.Dola. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould,That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure,Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes,And robs me of my manhood. I should speakSo faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart,She'd not believe it earnest.Ant. Therefore,—thereforeThou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me;And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long),Take off the edge from every sharper sound,And let our parting be as gently made,[70]As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this?Dola. What you have said so sinks into my soul,That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.Ant. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell.I sent her word to meet you.[ Goes to the door, and comes bac\.I forgot;Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine,Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,If I have power with Caesar.—Oh, be sureTo think on that.Dola. Fear not, I will remember.[ ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back,.Ant. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained;I did not this, but with extremest force.Desire her not to hate my memory,For I still cherish hers:—insist on that.Dola. Trust me. I'll not forget it.Ant. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again.Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more?Tell her, though we shall never meet again,If I should hear she took another love,The news would break my heart.—Now I must go;For every time I have returned, I feelMy soul more tender; and my next commandWould be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.Dola. Men are but children of a larger growth;Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,And full as craving too, and full as vain;And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room,Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing:But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,Works all her folly up, and casts it outwardTo the world's open view: Thus I discovered,And blamed the love of ruined Antony:Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined.[71]Enter VENTIDIUS aboveVent. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too?Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once,And may pursue it still.Dola. O friendship! friendship!Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse:Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to w in ;And if I win, undone: mere madness all.And yet the occasion's fair. What injuryTo him, to wear the robe which he throws by!Vent. None, none at all. This happens as I wish,To ruin her yet more with Antony. ¶Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS;CHARMION, IRAS on the other sideDola. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face!Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness;Yet, now and then, a melancholy smileBreaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night,And shows a moment's day.Vent. If she should love him too! her eunuch there?That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer,Sweet devil, that I may hear.Alex. Believe me; try ¶[DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS; ¶seems to talf^ with them.To make him jealous; jealousy is likeA polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt;If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it.Cleo. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love,But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine;It puts out the disease, and makes it show,But has no power to cure.Alex. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too:And then this Dolabella, whoso fitTo practise on ? He's handsome, valiant, young,[72]And looks as he were laid for nature's bait,To catch weak women's eyes.He stands already more than half suspectedOf loving you: the least kind word or glance,You give this youth, will kindle him with love:Then, like a burning vessel set adrift,You'll send him down amain before the wind,To fire the heart of jealous Antony.Cleo. Can I do this? Ah , no, my love's so true,That I can neither hide it where it is,Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant meA wife; a silly, harmless, household dove,Fond without art, and kind without deceit;But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me,Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnishedOf falsehood to be happy.Alex. Force yourself.The event will be, your lover will return,Doubly desirous to possess the goodWhich once he feared to lose.Cleo. I must attempt it;But oh, with what regret I[Exit ALEX AS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.Vent. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach.Cleo. [to DOL . ] Discoursing with my women I might not IShare in your entertainment?Char. You have beenThe subject of it, madam.Cleo. How ! and how?Iras. Such praises of your beautylCleo. Mere poetry.Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus,Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.Dola. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt;Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung:I, who have seen—had I been born a poet,Should choose a nobler name.[73]Cleo. You flatter me.But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your countryAre flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you.I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words.Dola. No , madam; yet he sent me —Cleo. Well, he sent you—Dola. Of a less pleasing errand.Cleo. How less pleasing?Less to yourself, or me?Dola. Madam, to both;For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.Cleo. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.—Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]—Well, now your mournful matter;For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too.Dola. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office,To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex,Most fear displeasing you.Cleo. Of all your sex,I soonest could forgive you, if you should.Vent. Most delicate advances! Women ! women !Dear, damned, inconstant sex!Cleo. In the first place,I am to be forsaken; is't not so ?Dola. I wish I could not answer to that question.Cleo. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you:I should have been more grieved another time.Next I'm to lose my kingdom—Farewell, Egypt!Yet, is there any more?Dola. Madam, I fearYour too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.Cleo. No , no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune:And love may be expelled by other love,As poisons are by poisons.Dola. You o'erjoy me, madam,To find your griefs so moderately borne.You've heard the worst; all are not false like him.[74]Cleo. No ; Heaven forbid they should.Dola. Some men are constant.Cleo. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain.Dola. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope.Vent. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough:But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider. [Exit.Dola. I came preparedTo tell you heavy news; news, which I thoughtWould fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear:But you have met it with a cheerfulness,That makes my task more easy: and my tongue,Which on another's message was employed,Would gladly speak its own .Cleo. Hold, Dolabella.First tell me, were you chosen by my lord?Or sought you this employment?Dola. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend,He charged me with his words.Cleo. The message thenI know was tender, and each accent smooth,To mollify that rugged word, Depart.Dola. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words;With fiery eyes, and contracted brows,He coined his face in the severest stamp;And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake;He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing /Etna,In sounds scarce human—"Hence away for ever,Let her begone, the blot of my renown,And bane of all my hopes!"[All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seemsmore and more concerned, till she sinkj quitedown."Let her be driven, as far as men can think,From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre."Cleo. Oh, I can bear no more!Dola. Help, help!—O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch!What have I done![75]Char. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.Iras. Bend, bend her forward quickly.Char. Heaven be praised,She comes again.Cleo. Oh, let him not approach me.Why have you brought me back to this loathed being;The abode of falsehood, violated vows,And injured love? For pity, let me go ;For, if there be a place of long repose,I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lordCan never break that quiet; nor awakeThe sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tombSuch words as fright her hence.—Unkind, unkind!Dola. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; {Kneeling.That sure desires belief; I injured him :My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seenHow often he came back, and every timeWith something more obliging and more kind ,To add to what he said; what dear farewells;How almost vanquished by his love he parted,And leaned to what unwillingly he left!I, traitor as I was, for love of you(But what can you not do, who made me false?)I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneelsThis self-accused, self-punished criminal.Cleo. With how much ease believe we what we wish!Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty,I have contributed, and too much loveHas made me guilty too.The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned,To call back fleeting love by jealousy;But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose,Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.Dola. I find your breast fenced round from human reach,Transparent as a rock of solid crystal;Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend,What endless treasure hast thou thrown away;[76]And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean,Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!Cleo. Could you not begAn hour's admittance to his private ear?Like one, who wanders through long barren wildsAnd yet foreknows no hospitable innIs near to succour hunger, eats his fill,Before his painful march;So would I feed a while my famished eyesBefore we part; for I have far to go,If death be far, and never must return.