The British Drama: pt. 1-2. Tragedies

Observers of all kinds.

Enter PHOTINUS and SEPTIMIUS.
Achor. No more of him,

He is not worth our thoughts; a fugitive
From Pompey's ariny, and now in a danger,
When he should use his service.

Achil. See how he hangs

On great Photinus' ear.

Sept. Hell, and the furies,

And all the plagues of darkness, light upon me, You are my god on earth! and let me have Your favour here, fall what can fall hereafter! Pho. Thou art believed; dost thou want money?

Sept. No, Sir.

Pho. Such as are wise

Leave falling buildings, fly to those that rise.
But more of that hereafter.
Lab. In a word, sir,

Pho. Or hast thou any suit? These ever follow These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave, Thy vehement protestations.

Sept. You much wrong me;

How can I want, when your beams shine upon me,
Unless employment to express my zeal
To do your greatness service. Do but think
A deed, so dark the sun would blush to look on,
For which mankind would curse me, and arm all
The powers above, and those below, against me;
Command me, I will on.

Pho. When I have use,
I'll put you to the test.

Sept. May it be speedy,

And something worth my danger. You are cold, And know not your own powers: this brow was fashioned

Speak Pompey's loss. To tell you of the battle,
How many thousand several bloody shapes
Death wore that day in triumph; how we bore
The shock of Cæsar's charge; or with what fury
Ilis soldiers came on, as if they had been
So many Cæsars, and, like him, ambitious
To tread upon the liberty of Rome;
How fathers killed their sons, or sons their fa-
thers;

Or how the Roman pikes on each side
Drew Roman blood, which spent, the prince of
weapons

(The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars, Appoints the tent, on which winged victory Shall make a certain stand: then, how the plains

Flowed o'er with blood, and what a cloud of vul-
tures,

And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies,
Attending, when their ready servitors,
The soldiers, from whom the angry gods
Had took all sense of reason and of pity,
Would serve, in their own carcasses, for a feast;
How Cæsar, with his javelin, forced them on,
That made the least stop, when their angry hands
Were lifted up against some known friend's face;
Then, coming to the body of the army,

He shews the sacred senate, and forbids them
To waste their force upon the common soldier,
(Whom willingly, if e'er he did know pity,
He would have spared)-

Ptol. The reason, Labienus?

Lab. Full well he knows, that in their blood he

was

To pass to empire, and that through their bowels
He must invade the laws of Rome, and give
A period to the liberty of the world.
Then fell the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini,
The famed Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelli,
Names, next to Pompey's, most renowned
earth.

The nobles, and the commons, lay together,
And Pontic, Punic, and Assyrian blood,
Made up one crimson lake: Which Pompey see-

ing,

| Were ravished from me, is a holy truth,
Our gods can witness for me: Yet, being young,
And not a free disposer of myself,
Let not a few hours, borrowed for advice,
Beget suspicion of unthankfulness,
Which, next to hell, I hate. Pray you retire,
And take a little rest; and let his wounds
Be with that care attended, as they were
Carved on my flesh. Good Labienus, think
The little respite, I desire, shall be
Wholly employed to find the readiest way
To do great Pompey service.
Lab. May the gods,

As you intend, protect you!
Ptol. Sit, sit all;

[Exit.

It is my pleasure. Your advice, and freely.
Achor. A short deliberation in this,
May serve to give you counsel. To be honest,
Religious, and thankful, in themselves

Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish
Or gloss in the persuader; your kept faith,
Though Pompey never rise to the height he is
fallen from,

Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion
Is, still committing it to graver censure,
You pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard
Of all you can call yours.

Ptol. What is yours, Photinus?

Pho. Achoreus, great Ptolomy, hath counselled,
Like a religious and honest man,
Worthy the honour that he justly holds
In being priest to Isis. But, alas,
What in a man, sequestered from the world,
Or in a private person, is preferred,
them-No policy allows of in a king:

And that his, and the fate of Rome, had left him,
Standing upon the rampier of his camp,
Though scorning all that could fall on himself,
He pities them, whose fortunes are embarked
In his unlucky quarrel; cries aloud, too,
That they should sound retreat, and save
selves:

That he desired not so much noble blood
Should be lost in his service, or attend
On his misfortunes: And then, taking horse,
With some few of his friends, he came to Lesbos,
And, with Cornelia, his wife, and sons,

He has touched upon your shore. The king of
Parthia,

Famous in his defeature of the Crassi,
Offered him his protection; but Pompey,
Relying on his benefits, and your faith,
Hath chosen Egypt for his sanctuary,
'Till he may recollect his scattered powers,
And try a second day. Now, Ptolomy,
Though he appear not like that glorious thing,
That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws
To conquered nations, and made crowns his gift,
(As this of yours, your noble father took

From his victorious hand, and you still wear it
At his devotion) to do you more honour
In his declined estate, as the straightest pine
In a full grove of his yet-flourishing friends,
He flies to you for succour, and expects
The entertainment of your father's friend,
And guardian to yourself.

Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune,
As much as if the crown I wear (his gift)

The conqueror will not challenge. By all the world

Forsaken and despised, your gentle guardian,
His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice
of

What nation he shall fall with; and, pursued
By their pale ghosts, slain in this civil war,
He flies not Cæsar only, but the senate,

Of which the greater part have cloyed the hunger

Of sharp Pharsalian fowl; he flies the nations,
That he drew to his quarrel, whose estates
Are sunk in his; and, in no place received,
Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruined.
And Ptolomy, things considered, justly may
Complain of Pompey: Wherefore should he stain
Our Egypt with the spots of civil war,
Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile,
Doubted of Cæsar? Wherefore should he draw
His loss and overthrow upon our heads,
Or chuse this place to suffer in? Already
We have offended Cæsar, in our wishes,
And no way left us to redeem his favour
But by the head of Pompey.

Achor. Great Osiris,

Defend thy Egypt from such cruelty, And barbarous ingratitude!

But we must follow where his fortune leads us :
All provident princes measure their intents
According to their power, and so dispose them.
And think'st thou, Ptolomy, that thou canst prop
His ruins, under whom sad Rome now suffers,
Or tempt the conqueror's force when it is con-
firmed?

Shall we, that in the battle sat as neuters,
Serve him, that is overcome? No, no, he is lost.
And though it is noble to a sinking friend
To lend a helping hand, while there is hope
He may recover, thy part not engaged:
Though one most dear, when all his hopes are

dead,

To drown him, set thy foot upon his head. Achor. Most execrable counsel!

Achil. To be followed;

Tis for the kingdom's safety.

Ptol. We give up

Our absolute power to thee: Dispose of it As reason shall direct thee.

Pho. Good Achillas,

Seek out Septimius: Do you but soothe him;
He is already wrought. Leave the dispatch
To me of Labienus: 'Tis determined
Already how you shall proceed. Nor fate
Shall alter it, since now the dye is cast,
But that this hour to Pompey is his last!

SCENE II.

Enter APOLLODORUS, EROS, and ARSINOE, Apol. Is the queen stirring, Eros! Eros. Yes; for in truth She touched no bed to-night.

Apol. I'm sorry for it,

And wish it were in me, with any hazard,
To give her ease.

Ars. Sir, she accepts your will,

And does acknowledge she hath found you noble,
So far, as if restraint of liberty

Could give admission to a thought of mirth,
She is your debtor for it.

Apol. Did you tell her

Of the sports I have prepared to entertain her?
She was used to take delight, with her fair hand
To angle in the Nile, where the glad fish,
As if they knew who 'twas sought to deceive them,
Contended to be taken: Other times,

To strike the stag, who, wounded by her arrows,
Forgot his tears in death, and, kneeling, thanks her
To his last gasp; then prouder of his fate,
Than if, with garlands crowned, he had been
chosen

To fall a sacrifice before the altar

Of the virgin huntress. The king, nor great Pho

She shall interpret it, I'll not be wanting
To do my best to serve her: I've prepared
Choice music near her cabinet, and composed
Some few lines, set unto a solemn time,
In the praise of imprisonment. Begin, boy.
THE SONG.

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air:
Even in shadows you are fair.

Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.
Though your body be confined,

And soft love a prisoner bound,

Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found.

Look out nobly then, and dare

Even the fetters, that you wear.

Enter CLEOPATRA.

Cleo. But that we are assured this tastes of

duty [Exeunt. And love in you, my guardian, and desire

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 kneeled 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.
Cico. 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 bear 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 purchase

His grace with loss of my virginity,

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

ACT II.

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

Achil. Peace, Septimius;

Thy words sound more ungrateful than thy ac

tions.

Though sometimes safety seek an instrument

Sept. 'Tis here, 'tis done! Behold, you fear-Of thy unworthy nature, (thou loud boaster!)

ful viewers,

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

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

at,

And fled before, winged with their fears and ter

rors;

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 heave at,
Not heave a thought.
Sept. It was?

Achil. I'll tell thee truly,

And, if thou ever yet heardst tell of honour,
I'll make thee blush: It was thy general's;
That man's, that fed thee once, that man's, that

bred thee;

The air, thou breathedst, was his, the fire, that warmed thee,

From his care kindled ever; Nay, I'll shew thee,

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

Nor laboured through no showers of darts and 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,

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