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Who would regard it?

Ptol. You say true.
Achil. What eye

Will look upon king Ptolomy? If they do look,
It must be in scorn; for a poor king's a monster:
What ear remember ye? 'twill be then a courtesy,
A noble one, to take your life too from you:
But if reserved, you stand to fill a victory;
As who knows conquerors' minds, though out-
wardly

They bear fair streams? Oh, sir, does not this shake ye?

If to be honied on to these afflictions

Ptol. I never will: I was a fool!
Pho. For then, sir,

Your country's cause falls with you too, and fettered:

All Egypt shall be ploughed up with dishonour. Ptol. No more; I am sensible: And now my spirit

Burns hot within me.

Achil. Keep it warm and fiery.
Pho. And last, be counselled.
Ptol. I will, though I perish.

Pho. Go in: We'll tell you all, and then we'll

execute.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

Enter CLEOPATRA, ARSINOE, and EROS. Ars. You are so impatient!

Cleo. Have I not cause? Women of common beauties, and low births, When they are slighted, are allowed their angers: Why should not I, a princess, make him know The baseness of his usage?

Ars. Yes, it is fit:

But then again, you know, what man

Cleo. He is no man!

The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him,
And not the virtue: He is no conqueror,
Has suffered under the base dross of nature;
Poorly delivered up his power to wealth,

The god of bed-rid men, taught his eyes treason;
Against the truth of love he has raised rebellion,
Defied his holy flames.

Eros. He will fall back again,

And satisfy your grace.

Cleo. Had I been old,

Or blasted in my bud, he might have shewed Some shadow of dislike: But, to prefer

The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe,

And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels,

Before the life of love, and soul of beauty,
Oh, how it vexes me! He is no soldier;
All honourable soldiers are love's servants;
He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant,
Servile to gain: He trades for poor commodities,
And makes his conquests, thefts! Some fortu-
nate captains,

That quarter with him, and are truly valiant,
Have flung the name of happy Cæsar on him;
Himself ne'er won it: He is so base and cove-
tous,

He'll sell his sword for gold!

Ars. This is too bitter.

Cleo. Oh, I could curse myself, that was so foolish,

So fondly childish, to believe his tongue,
His promising tongue, ere I could catch his tem-

per.

I had trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal, (His covetous eyes) such as I scorn to tread on, Richer than ever he saw yet, and more tempting; Had I known he had stooped at that, I had saved mine honour,

I had been happy still! But let him take it,
And let him brag how poorly I am rewarded;
Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies:
Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly,
And, when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest.
I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,

An old blind fool too! I lose my health; I will

not,

I will not cry; I will not honour him
With tears diviner than the gods he worships;
I will not take the pains to curse a poor thing!
Eros. Do not; you shall not need.
Cleo. 'Would I were prisoner

To one I hate, that I might anger him!
I will love any man, to break the heart of him!
Any, that has the heart and will to kill him!
Ars. Take some fair truce.

Cleo. I will go study mischief,

And put a look on, armed with all my cunnings,
Shall meet him like a basilisk, and strike him!
Love, put destroying flames into mine eyes,
Into my smiles deccits, that I may torture him,
That I may make him love to death, and laugh
at him!

Enter APPOLODORUS.
Apol. Cæsar commends his service to your

grace.

Cleo. His service? what is his service?
Eros. Pray you be patient:

The noble Cæsar loves still.

Cleo. What is his will?

Apol. He craves access unto your highness.
Cleo. No;

Say, no; I will have none to trouble n.
Ars. Good sister!

Cleo. None, I say; I will be private. 'Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper,

When first thou gavest consent, to bring my body | Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory,
To this unthankful Cæsar!
And minds adorned with noble love, would kick
at!

Apol. Twas your will, madam,

Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honoured Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase ; Beauty and honour are the marks they shoot at. I spake to you then, I courted you, and wooed

you.

You know what danger I endured.
Cleo. Take this,

[Groing a jewel. And carry it to that lordly Cæsar sent thee; There's a new love, a handsome one, a rich one, One that will hug his mind: Bid him make love to it;

Tell the ambitious broker, this will suffer

Enter CESAR.

Apol. He enters.

Cleo. How!

Casar. I do not use to wait, lady;

Where I am, all the doors are free and open.
Cleo. I guess so, by your rudeness,
Cesar. You are not angry?

Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.

Why do you frown? Good Gods, what a set anger Have you forced into your face? Come, I must temper you.

What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful! How like an ominous flash it broke out from you! Defend me, Love! Sweet, who has angered you? Cleo. Shew him a glass! That false face has betrayed me,

That base heart wronged me!

Cesar. Be more sweetly angry.

I wronged you, fair?

Cleo. Away with your foul flatteries;

They are too gross! But that I dare be angry,
And with as great a god as Cæsar is,

To shew how poorly I respect his memory,
I would not speak to you.

Casar. Pray you undo this riddle,

And tell me how I have vexed you?

Cleo. Let me think first,

Whether I may put on a patience,

That will with honour suffer me. Know, I hate you!

Let that begin the story: Now, I'll tell you.
Cæsar. But do it milder: In a noble lady
Softness of spirit, and a sober nature,

That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows

sweetness,

Shews blessed, like herself.

Cleo. And that great blessedness

You reaped of me: Till you taught my nature,
Like a rude storm, to talk aloud, and thunder,
Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller.
You had the spring of my affections,

And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of;
You must expect the winter of mine anger.
You flung me off, before the court disgraced me,
When in the pride I appeared of all my beauty,
Appeared your mistress; took into your eyes
The common strumpet, love of hated lucre,
Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature,

you,

Called you dear Cæsar,' hung about you tenderly,

Was proud to appear your friend

Cæsar. You have mistaken me.

Cleo, But neither eye, nor favour, not a smile, Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely; And, as you had been sold to sordid infamy, You fell before the images of treasure, And in your soul you worshipped: I stood slighted, Forgotten and condemned; my soft embraces, And those sweet kisses you called Elysium, As letters writ in sand, no more remembered The name and glory of your Cleopatra Laughed at, and made a story to your captains! Shall I endure?

Casar, You are deceived in all this;
Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness.
Cleo, No, no; I love not that way; you are
cozened:

I love with as much ambition as a conqueror;
And, where I love, will triumph!

Casar. So you shall;

My heart shall be the chariot, that shall bear you; All, I have won, shall wait upon you.-By the gods,

The bravery of this woman's mind has fired me!-Dear mistress, shall I but this night

Cleo. How, Cæsar?

Have I let slip a second vanity,
That gives thee hope?

Cesar. You shall be absolute,

And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing! Cleo. Make me a maid again, and then I'll hear thee;

Examine all thy art of war to do that,

And, if thou findest it possible, I'll love thee:
Till when, farewell, unthankful!

Cæsar. Stay!

Cleo. I will not,

Cæsar. I command!

Cleo. Command, and go without, sir.

I do command thee, be my slave for ever,
And vex, while I laugh at thee.

Casur. Thus low, beauty

Cleo. It is too late; when I have found thee absolute,

The man, that fame reports thee, and to me, May-be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror! [Exit.

Cæsar. She mocks me too! I will enjoy her

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Stay, fool, and be advised; that dulls the appetite,
Takes off the strength and sweetness of delight.
By heaven she is a miracle! I must use
A handsome way to win- -How now? What

fear
Dwells in your faces? you look all distracted.

Enter SCEVA, ANTONY, and DOLABELLA. Sce. If it be fear, 'tis fear of your undoing, Not of ourselves; fear of your poor declining; Our lives and deaths are equal benefits, And we make louder prayers to die nobly, Than to live high, and wantonly.

are secure here,

And offer hecatombs of lazy kisses

Whilst you

To the lewd god of love and cowardice,
And most lasciviously die in delights,

You are begirt with the fierce Alexandrians.

Dol. The spawn of Egypt flow about your palace,

Armed all, and ready to assault.

Ant. Led on

By the false and base Photinus, and his ministers. No stirring out, no peeping through a loop-hole, But straight saluted with an armed dart.

Sce. No parley; they are deaf to all but danger. They swear they'll lay us, and then dry our quarters;

A rasher of a salt lover is such a shoeing-horn!
Can you kiss away this conspiracy, and set us free?
Or will the giant god of love fight for you?
Will his fierce warlike bow kill a cock-sparrow?
Bring out the lady! she can quell this mutiny,
And with her powerful looks strike awe into
them;

She can destroy and build again the city;
Your goddesses have mighty gifts! Shew them
her fair form.

They are not above a hundred thousand, sir,
A mist, a mist! that, when her eyes break out,
Her powerful radiant eyes, and shake their flashes,
Will fly before her heats!

Casar. Begirt with villains?

Sce. They come to play you and your love a hunts-up.

You were told what this same whoreson wenching long ago would come to: You are taken napping now! Has not a soldier A time to kiss his friend, and a time to consider, But he must lie still digging like a pioneer, Making of mines, and burying of his honour there?

'Twere good you'd think

Dol. And time too; or you'll find else A harder task than courting a coy beauty. Ant. Look out, and then believe.

Sce. No, no, hang danger;

Take me provoking broth, and then go to her,
Go to your love, and let her feel your valour.
When the sword is in your throat, sir,

You may cry, 'Cæsar and sce, if that will help

you.

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1 Sold. Did you see this penitence?

2 Sold. Yes, I saw, and heard it.

3 Sold. And I too looked upon him, and observed it;

He is the strangest Septimius now

1 Sold. I heard he was altered, And had given away his gold to honest uses, Cried monstrously.

2 Sold. He cries abundantly; He is blind almost with weeping.

3 Sold. 'Tis most wonderful, That a hard-hearted man, and an old soldier, Should have so much kind moisture. When his mother died,

He laughed aloud, and made the wickedest ballads!

1 Sold. 'Tis like enough: he never loved his pa

rents;

Nor can I blame him, for they never loved him. His mother dreamed, before she was delivered, That she was brought a-bed with a buzzard, and ever after

She whistled him up to the world. His brave clothes, too,

He has flung away, and goes like one of us now; Walks with his hands in his pockets, poor and sorrowful,

And gives the best instructions!

2 Sold. And tells stories

Of honest and good people, that were honoured,
And how they were remembered; and runs mad,
If he but hear of an ungrateful person,
A bloody or betraying man.

3 Sold. If it be possible, That an arch-villain may ever be recovered, This penitent rascal will put hard. Twere worth our labour To see him once again.

Enter SEPTIMIUS,

1 Sold. He spares us that labour, For here he comes.

Sept. Bless ye, my honest friends,

Bless ye from base unworthy men! Come not

near me,

For I am yet too taking for your company. 1 Sold. Did I not tell ye?

2 Sold. What book is that? 1 Sold. No doubt,

Some excellent salve for a sore heart. Are you
Septimius, that base knave, that betrayed Pom-
pey?

Sept. I was, and am; unless your honest thoughts
Will look upon my penitence, and save me,
I must be ever villain. Oh, good soldiers,

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Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the sacrifice;
Thou art marked for shame eternal!
Sept. Look all on me,

soldiers,

And let me be a story, left to time, Of blood and infamy! How base and ugly Ingratitude appears, with all her profits! You, that have Roman hearts, take heed of false-How monstrous my hoped grace at court! Good hood; Take heed of blood; take heed of foul ingrati-Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound tude! Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodness: To be valiant, old, and honest, oh, what blessedness!

The gods have scarce a mercy for those mischiefs. Take heed of pride; it was that, that brought me to it.

2 Sold. This fellow would make a rare speech at the gallows.

3 Sold. Tis very fit he were hanged to edify

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Who is this? a priest?

Sept. Oh, stay, most holy sir!

And, by the gods of Egypt, I conjure ye,
Isis, and great Osiris, pity me,

Pity a loaden man! and tell me truly,
With what most humble sacrifice I may

Wash off my sin, and appease the powers, that
hate me?

Take from my heart those thousand thousand fu-
ries,

That restless gnaw upon my life. and save me!
Orestes' bloody hands fell on his mother,
Yet at the holy altar he was pardoned.

1 Sold. Dost thou want any thing?
Sept. Nothing but your prayers.

2 Sold. Be thus, and let the blind priest do his

worst;

We've gods as well as they, and they will hear us. 3 Sold. Come, cry no more: Thou hast wept out twenty Pompeys.

Enter PHOTINUS and ACHILLAS.

Pho. So penitent?
Achil. It seems so.

Pho. Yet for all this
We must employ him.

1 Sold. These are the armed soldier-leaders : Away, and let's to the fort; we shall be snapt else. [Exeunt.

Pho. How now? Why thus? What cause of

this dejection?

Achil. Why dost thou weep?

Sept. Pray leave me; you have ruined me,
You have made me a famous villain!
Pho. Does that touch thee?

Achil. He will be hard to win.

Pho. He must be won, or we shall want our right hand.

This fellow dares, and knows, and must be heart-
ened.

Art thou so poor to blench at what thou hast done?
Is conscience a comrade for an old soldier?

Achil. It is not that; it may be some disgrace,
That he takes heavily, and would be cherished.
Septimius ever scorned to shew such weakness.
Sept. Let me alone; I am not for your pur-

pose;

I am now a new man.

Pho. We have new affairs for thee;
Those, that will raise thy head.

Sept. I would it were off,

And in your bellies, for the love you bear me !
I'll be no more knave; I have stings enough
Already in my breast.

Pho. Thou shalt be noble;

And who dares think then, that thou art not ho

nest?

Achil. Thou shalt command in chief all our | strong forces;

And if thou servest an use, must not all justify it?

Sept. I am rogue enough.

Pho. Thou wilt be more and baser;

A poor rogue's all rogues, open to all shames; Nothing to shadow him. Dost thou think crying Can keep thee from the censure of the multitude?

Or to be kneeling at the altar, save thee?

'Tis poor and servile! Wert thou thine own sacrifice,

'Twould seem so low, people would spit the fire

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Sept. I'll stop mine ears.

Achil. Will shew so in a soldier,

So simply and so ridiculously, so tamely

Pho. If people would believe thee, it were some honesty;

And for thy penitence would not laugh at thee,
(As sure they will) and beat thee, for thy poverty;
If they'd allow thy foolery, there were some hope.
Sept. My foolery?

Pho. Nay, more than that, thy misery,
Thy monstrous misery.

Achil. He begins to hearken.

Thy misery so great, men will not bury thee.
Sept. That this were true!

Pho. Why does this conquering Cæsar Labour through the world's deep seas of toils and troubles,

Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent after

wards?

Why does he slaughter thousands in a battle, And whip his country with the sword? to cry for it?

Thou killedst great Pompey: He'll kill all his kindred,

And justify it; nay, raise up trophies to it. When thou hearest him repent (he is held most holy too),

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Puling repentance, off!

Pho. Now thou speakest nobly.

Sept. Off, my dejected looks, and welcome, impudence!

My daring shall be deity, to save me.
Give me instructions, and put action on me,
A glorious cause upon my sword's point, gen-

tlemen,

And let my wit and valour work. You will raise ine,

And make me out-dare all my miseries.
Pho. All this, and all thy wishes.
Sept. Use me, then.

Womanish fear, farewell! I'll never melt more.
Lead on to some great thing, to wake my spirit!
I cut the cedar Pompey, and I'll fell
This huge oak Cæsar, too.

Pho. Now thou singest sweetly, And Ptolomy shall crown thee for thy service. Achil. He's well wrought; put him on apace, before cooling. [Exeunt.

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