In you, my sister, and the rest, to please us,
We should receive this as a saucy rudeness,
Offered our private thoughts. But your intents
Are to delight us: Alas, you wash an Ethiop!
Can Cleopatra, while she does remember
Whose daughter she is, and whose sister (oh,
I suffer in the name !) and that, in justice,
There is no place in Egypt, where I stand,
But that the tributary earth is proud
To kiss the foot of her, that is her
queen;
Can she, I say, that is all this, e'er relish
Of comfort or delight, while base Photinus,
Bondman Achillas, and all other monsters,
That reign o'er Ptolomy, make that a court,
Where they reside; and this, where I, a prison?
But there's a Rome, a senate, and a Cæsar,
Though the great Pompey lean to Ptolomy,
May think of Cleopatra.

Apol. Pompey, madam

Cleo. What of him? Speak! If ill, Apollodorus, It is my happiness; and, for thy news, Receive a favour, kings have knceled in vain for, And kiss my hand.

Apol. He's lost.

Cleo. Speak it again!

Apol. His army routed, he fled, and pursued By the all-conquering Cæsar.

Cleo. Whither bends he?

Apol. To Egypt.
Cleo. Ha! In person?
Apol. Tis received

For an undoubted truth.

Cleo. I live again;

And if assurance of my love and beauty Deceive me not, I now shall find a judge To do me right! But how to free myself,

SCENE I.

And get access? The guards are strong upon me;
This door I must pass through.-Apollodorus,
Thou often hast professed, to do me service,
Thy life was not thine own.

Apol. I am not altered;

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

Cleo. Stand off!-To thee alone,

I will discover what I dare not trust
My sister with. Cæsar is amorous,
And taken more with the title of a queen,
Than feature or proportion; he loved Eunoe,
A moor, deformed too, I have heard, that brought
No other object to inflame his blood,

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

Apol. I am.

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

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

Things greater than thy wishes.-Though I pur

chase

His grace with loss of my virginity,

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

Enter SEPTIMIUS, with a head, ACHILLAS, and guard.

ful viewers,

Shake, and behold the model of the world here, The pride, and strength! Look, look again; 'tis finished!

That, that whole armies, nay, whole nations, Many and mighty kings, have been struck blind at,

And fled before, winged with their fears and terrors;

That steel war waited on, and fortune courted,
That high-plumed honour built up for her own;
Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness,
Behold that child of war, with all his glories,
By this poor hand made breathless! Here, my
Achillas;

Egypt, and Cæsar, owe me for this service,
And all the conquered nations.

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

Why did not I, if this be meritorious,

And binds the king unto me, and his bounties,
Strike this rude stroke? I'll tell thee, thou poor
Roman;

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

Achil. I'll tell thee truly,

heave at,

Because I'll make thee sensible of thy baseness,
And why a noble man durst not touch at it,
There was no piece of earth, thou put'st thy foot

on,

But was his conquest, and he gave thee motion! He triumphed three times: Who durst touch his person?

The very walls of Rome bowed to his presence; Dear to the gods he was; to them, that feared him,

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

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

There, sword to sword.

Sept. I killed him on commandment,

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

Achil. On deeds so barbarous. What hast thou got?

Sept. The king's love, and his bounty,

The honour of the service; which though you rail at,

Or a thousand envious souls fling their foams on

me,

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

Achil. A miserable villain.

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

Sept. The king will yet consider.

[Exit.

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

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

If this inhuman stroke be yet unstrucken,
If that adored head be not yet severed
From the most noble body, weigh the miseries,
The desolations, that this great eclipse works.
You are young, be provident; fix not your empire
Upon the tomb of him will shake all Egypt;
Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand
spirits,

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

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

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

Be not abused with fears: His death was necessary,
If you consider, sir, most necessary,
Not to be missed: And humbly thank great Isis,
He came so opportunely to your hands.
Pity must now give place to rules of safety.
Is not victorious Cæsar new arrived,
And entered Alexandria with his friends,
His navy riding by to wait his charges?
Did he not beat this Pompey, and pursued him?
Was not this great man his great enemy?
This godlike virtuous man, as people held him?
But what fool dare be friend to flying virtue?
I hear their trumpets; 'tis too late to stagger.
Give me the head; and be you confident.
Enter CESAR, ANTONY, DOLABELLA, and SCEVA.
Hail, conqueror, and head of all the world,
Now this head's off!

Cæsar. Ha!

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

Achil. Nor do not question it, most royal con

lances,

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

Sce. Give me hate, gods!

Pha. This Cæsar may account a little wicked; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror,

Had fallen upon him, what it had been then; If thine own sword had touched his throat, what that way!

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

We have deserved for keeping thy hands innocent. Cæsar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! see, captains,

The head of godlike Pompey!

Sce. He was basely ruined;

But let the gods be grieved, that suffered it,
And be you Cæsar.

Cæsar. Oh, thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity, Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

What poor fate followed thee, and plucked thee

on,

To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?

The life and light of Rome, to a blind stranger, That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance shewed what a man was?

That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets,

And loose lascivious pleasures? to a boy,
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,
No study of thy life, to know thy goodness?
And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend,
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee,
In soft relenting tears? Hear me, great Pompey,
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee!
Thou hast most unnobly robbed me of my victory,
My love and mercy.

Ant. Oh, how brave these tears shew!
How excellent is sorrow in an enemy!
Dol. Glory appears not greater than this good-

ness.

Cæsar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids,

Built to out-dare the sun, as you suppose,
Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes,
Are monuments fit for him? No, brood of Nilus,
Nothing can cover his high fame, but heaven;
No pyramids set off his memories,

But the eternal substance of his greatness,
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial:
Your carth shall now be blessed to hold a Ro-

man,

Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance.

Sce. If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee:

But great men may dissemble, it is held possible, And be right glad of what they seem to weep for; There are such kind of philosophers. Now do I wonder

How he would look, if Pompey were alive again; How would he set his face.

Cæsar. You look now, king,

Your ministers, I must think, wanted judgment,
And so they erred: I'm bountiful to think this,
Believe me, most bountiful: Be you most thank-
ful;

That bounty share amongst you. If I knew what
To send you for a present, king of Egypt,
I mean a head of equal reputation,
And that you loved, though it were your bright-
est sister's,

(But her you hate) I would not be behind you. Ptol. Hear me, great Cæsar!

Cæsar. I have heard too much;

And study not with smooth shows to invade
My noble mind, as you have done my conquest:
You are poor and open. I must tell you roundly,
That man, that could not recompence the bene-
fits,

The great and bounteous services, of Pompey,
Can never dote upon the name of Cæsar.
Though I had hated Pompey, and allowed his
ruin,

I gave you no commission to perform it:
Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty;
And, but I stand environed with my victories,
My fortune never failing to befriend me,
My noble strengths, and friends about my person,
I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesy,
Above the pious love you shewed to Pompey.
You have found me merciful in arguing with ye;
Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures,
Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins,
Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears,
You wretched and poor reeds of sun-burnt Egypt,
And now you have found the nature of a con-

queror,

That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries, That where the day gives light, will be himself still;

Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies!

Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier,
Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices,
Make a Sabæan bed, and place this phoenix,
Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues,
And draw another Pompey from his ashes,
Divinely great, and fix him amongst the worthies!
Ptol. We will do all.

Casar. You have robbed him of those tears

His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him, The virgins of their funeral lamentations; And that kind earth, that thought to cover him, (His country's earth) will cry out against your cruelty,

ye!

And weep unto the ocean for revenge,
'Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour
My grief has stopt the rest! When Pompey lived,
He used you nobly; now he is dead, use him so.
[Exit.
Piol. Now, where's your confidence, your aim,
Photinus,

The oracles, and fair favours from the conqueror,
You rung into mine ears? How stand I now?
You see the tempest of his stern displeasure;
The death of him, you urged a sacrifice
To stop his rage, presaging a full ruin!
Where are your counsels now?

Achor. I told you, sir,

And told the truth, what danger would fly after:
And, though an enemy, I satisfied you
He was a Roman, and the top of honour;
And howsoever this might please great Cæsar,
I told you, that the foulness of his death,
The impious baseness-

Pho. Peace; you are a fool!

Men of deep ends must tread as deep ways to them;

Cesar I know is pleased, and for all his sorrows, Which are put on for forms, and mere dissem blings,

I am confident he is glad: To have told you so, And thanked you outwardly, had been too open, And taken from the wisdom of a conqueror.

Be confident, and proud you have done this service;

You have deserved, and you will find it, highly. Make bold use of this benefit, and be sure

You keep your sister, the high-souled Cleopatra, Both close and short enough, she may not see him.

The rest, if I may counsel, sir

Ptol. Do all;

Opened their hearts, and secret closets to me, Their purses and their pleasures, and hid me wallow.

I now perceive the great thieves eat the less,
And the huge leviathans of villainy

Sup up the merits, nay, the men and all,
That do them service, and spout them out again
Into the air, as thin and unregarded

As drops of water, that are lost in the ocean.
I was loved once for swearing and for drinking,
And for other principal qualities, that became me;
Now a foolish unthankful murder has undone me,
If my lord Photinus be not merciful,
That set me on. And he comes; now, Fortune!
Enter PHOTINUS.

Pho. Cæsar's unthankfulness a little stirs me, A little frets my blood: Take heed, proud Roman!

Provoke me not, stir not mine anger further!
I may find out a way unto thy life too,
Though armed in all thy victories, and seize it!
A conqueror has a heart, and I may hit it.
Sept. May't please your lordship
Pho. Oh, Septimius!

Sept. Your lordship knows my wrongs?
Pho. Wrongs?

Sept. Yes, my lord;