Ant. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just de- | Kill me, and take the merit of my death, To free myself from bondage. Vent. Do it bravely. Ant. I will; but not by fighting. O Ventidius! What should I fight for now? My queen is dead. I was but great for her; my power, my empire, Were but my merchandise to buy her love; And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead, Let Cæsar take the world, An empty circle, since the jewel's gone For all the bribes of life are gone away. Ant. Yes, I would be taken; Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk My torch is out; and the world stands be- Like a black desert at the approach of night: Thank your kindness. With a hard thought of you? Forgive me, Roman. That's all— I will not make a business of a trifle; Ant. But that I'll not outlive you: choose your Thou robb'st me of my death. For, I have seen him in such various shapes, We threw it from us with a better grace; The hunters that inclose us. Vent. I do indeed; If that may plead my pardon. gods, Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Ant. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honor.-Gone so soon? I have thought on't. Is Death no more? he used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness; ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say, "You're welcome at all hours, Ventidius, you must live. I must not, sir. Ant. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? To stand by my fair fame, and guard the A friend need give no warning." Books had approaches spoiled him; Or am I dead before I knew, and thou Help me seat him. Send quickly, send for help! [They place him in a chair. Ant. I am answered. We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra: I'll make the most I can of life, to stay A moment more with thee. Cleo. How is it with you? Ant. 'Tis as with a man Removing in a hurry; all packed up, But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur: So I come back for thee. Cleo. Too long, you heavens, you have been cruel to me: Now show your mended faith, and give me back Ant. But grieve not, while thou stay'st, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day And heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys,-what ages have we lived! And now to die each other's; and, so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours. Cleo. Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love? Ant. No, not a minute.-This one kissmore worth Than all I leave to Cæsar. [Dies. Cleo. O tell me so again, Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Iras. Iras. Cæsar is merciful. me When he was dead. Yield me to Cæsar's /pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; A secret curse on her who ruined him! Char. Cæsar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death. Iras. I only feared For you; but more should fear to live with out you. Cleo. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Dispatch; ere this, the town's in Cæsar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made Must I bid you twice? [Exeunt CHARMION and IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, We're now alone, in secrecy and silence; me: And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.-O, welcome, welcome! Enter CHARMION and IRAS. Char. What must be done? Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him.-Only thou Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph. Char. As when I saw him first, on Cydnos' bank, And dress the bride of Antony. 'Tis done. Cleo. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place; For I must conquer Cæsar too, like him, And win my share of the world.-Hail, you dear relics Of my immortal love! O let no impious hand remove you hence: Reach me the casket. Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That Death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but Sleep. Serap. [within]. The queen, where is she? The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates. Cleo. He comes too late to invade the rights of death Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm and draws it back. Coward flesh, Wouldst thou conspire with Cæsar to betray And guard the traitor well. [They apply the aspics. Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins: I go with such a will to find my lord, A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head; my eyelids fall, And my dear love is vanished in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast!-Cæsar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies. [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head. Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians. Than live to make a holiday in Rome. Serap. See, see, how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived, And went to charm him in another world. Cæsar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, To grace the imperial triumph. Sleep, blest pair, Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers lived so great, or died so well. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit. We wonder how the devil this difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, prays; Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all. THOMAS OTWAY VENICE PRESERVED VERY striking is the contrast between the first Restoration tragedian and the second, between Dryden and Otway: the one boasting no great work in his youth and only "faintly distinguished in his thirtieth year"; the other, among the unhappy youths of literature whose knell was knolled before they had reached the middle of the way. The energy, versatility, and breadth of view of the poet who could do all things better than another seem worlds above his younger contemporary's narrow intensity. The life of Thomas Otway begins in gladness. A country clergyman's son, born in a Sussex parish on March 3, 1652, he is educated at Winchester, which long hallows his memory, and then, as a gentleman commoner in the company of gilded youth at Christ Church, Oxford. His comeliness and charm win him many friends, who are rather a curse than a blessing, and his love of pleasure leads him, always feeble of purpose, into wild ways in London when his college days are over. He fails as an actor, stagestruck in his only attempt, and whistles other chances in life down the wind. There is soon no money in his purse, for his father has left him "nought but his loyalty." He turns playwright, receiving hearty greetings at the Duke's Theatre, now dominated by that best of actor-managers before Garrick, Thomas Betterton. The heroic play is near the end of its vogue, and Otway's first tragedy, Alcibiades (1675), is one of the dullest of that barren sort; but it is piloted to undeserved success by the talents of Betterton, his wife, and Mrs. Barry in the chief rôles. Other dramas follow in quick succession. In the next year (1676) the rimed Don Carlos wins as high favor from Restoration audiences as from many modern critics. In 1677 adaptations of Racine and Molière, floated by Betterton and Barry, gain applause and long hold the stage. An appalling lack of humor does not restrain Otway from comedy, and the rubbishy Friendship in Fashion, “full of nauseous doings," closes his first period in 1678 with a cheaply won triumph. Externally all seems well with the man, but the demon of frenzied love for that frail beauty, Mrs. Barry, who smiles upon his rival, the outrageous Earl of Rochester, grants the distracted wretch no mercy. To escape his tyrant-so he addresses the actress in the first of six despairing epistlesthis creature of impulse snatches at a commission in the army and hurries |