For his vast soul, and then he starts out wide,
And bounds into a vice, that bears him far
From his first course, and plunges him in ills:
But when his danger makes him find his fault,
Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,
He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,
Judging himself with malice to himself,
And not forgiving what as man he did,
Because his other parts are more than man.
He must not thus be lost.

[ALEXAS and the priests come forward. Alex. You have your full instructions; now ad

vance;

Proclaim your orders loudly.

Ser. Romans! Egyptians! hear the queen's command.

Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;
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 heaven,
And every public place repeat this echo.
Vent. Fine pageantry!

[Aside.

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

And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priest

Do present sacrifice, pour out the wine,
And call the gods to join with you in gladness.

Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy!

Can they be friends to Antony, who revel
When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame,
You Romans, your great grandsires' images,
For fear their souls should animate their marbles,|
To blush at their degenerate progeny,

Alex. A love, which knows no bounds to An-
tony,

Would mark the day with honours; when all
Heaven

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

Vent. Would it had slept

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

Alex. Your emperor,

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

He knows him not his executioner.

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

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him:

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

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

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

Than all their praying virgins left at home!
Alex. Would you could add to those more
shining virtues,

His truth to her, who loves him.
Vent. Would I could not!

But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee?
Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine,
Antony's other fate. Go tell thy queen,
Ventidius is arrived to end her charms.
Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone,
Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets.
You dare not fight for Antony; go pray,
And keep your cowards' holiday in temples.
[Exeunt Alex. Serap.

Re-enter the Gentleman of MARC ANTONY.
2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and com-
mands,

On pain of death, that none presume to stay.
1 Gent. I dare not disobey him.

[Going out with the other. Vent. Well, I dare: But I'll observe him first, unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll ven[Withdraws.

ture.

Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks.

Ant. They tell me, 'tis my birth-day; and I'll keep it

With double pomp of sadness:

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

To be trod out by Cæsar?

Vent. [Aside] On my soul

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains

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

Vent. [Aside] How sorrow shakes him!
So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

Ant. [Having thrown himself down] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor;

The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth,

Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou art contracted in thy narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia,
(For Cleopatra will not live to see it)
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,
To see his rival of the universe

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

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 fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all,

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,

Vent. Emperor.

you,

Vent. Sir, I love

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 godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me then?

Vent. 'Twas too presuming

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

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

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

I have not wept this forty years; but now

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 favourest me, and speakest not half thou thinkest;

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,

Fled, while his soldiers fought; fled first, Venti

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 disgraced
The name of soldier with inglorious ease;
In the full vintage of my flowing honours
Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands;
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,
And purple greatness met my ripened years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs,
The wish of nations, and the willing world
Received me as its pledge of future peace.
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,
Fate could not ruin me, till I took pains,
And worked against my fortune, chid her from

me,

And turned her loose; yet still she came again.
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,
At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,

Without just cause? No, when I found all lost
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,
And learned to scorn it here, which now I do
So heartily, I think it is not worth
The cost of keeping.

Vent. Cæsar 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 Cæsar, and die tamely. Ant. No, I can kill myself, and so resolve. Vent. I can die with you too, when time shall

you,

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

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy.

Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring them hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come.

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids

To double my despair? they are mutinous.

On all my other faults, but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra! she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you powers!

To whom you have entrusted 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 away
To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.

Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain inso-
lence!

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

Vent. You may kill me :

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

Vent. For shewing you yourself,

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

eagles

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

Ant. Forgive me, soldier;

I have been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false,

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir, Pray kill me: yet you need not; your unkindness Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

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

Vent. No prince, but you,
Could merit that sincerity, I used;
Nor durst another man have ventured it:
But you, ere love misled your 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, won-
dered

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

Ant. But Cleopatra

Go on, for I can bear it now.

Vent. No more.

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

And I will leave her, though heaven knows I love Beyond life, conquest, empire, all but honour: But I will leave her.

Vent. That is my royal master. And shall we fight?

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

Octavius fell. Gods! let me see that day,
And if I have ten years behind, take all;
I'll thank you for the exchange.
Ant. Oh, Cleopatra !

Vent. Again!

Ant. I have done; in that last sigh she went. Cæsar shall know what it is to force a lover From all he holds most dear.

Vent, Methinks you breathe
Another soul; your looks are most divine;
You speak a hero, and you move a god.

Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me! my soul's up in

SCENE I.-A grand Saloon.

Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS. Cleo. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn! Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. Aler. He goes to fight for you.

Iras. Call reason to assist you.

Cleo. I have none,

And none would have: my love's a noble mad