Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch Oh, judge me not less kind, because were placed;

Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.
Dola. No more; I would not hear it.
Ant.
Oh, you must!
She lay, and leant her cheek upon her
hand,

And cast a look so languishingly sweet,
As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,
Neglecting, she could take 'em: boys, like
Cupids,

Stood fanning with their painted wings the
winds

chide!

To Cæsar I excuse you.
Ant.

O ye gods!

Have I then lived to be excused to Cæsar?
Dola. As to your equal.
Ant.
Well, he's but my equal:
While I wear this, he never shall be more.
Dola. I bring conditions from him.
Ant.
Are they noble?
Methinks thou shouldst not bring 'em else;
yet he

Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honor That played about her face. But if she Divided from his interest. Fate mistook smiled,

A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,

That men's

wearied,

desiring eyes were never

But hung upon the object. To soft flutes
The silver oars kept time; and while they
played,

The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;
And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or
somewhat more:

him;

For nature meant him for an usurer:
He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.
Vent. Then, granting this,

What power was theirs, who wrought so
hard a temper

To honorable terms?

Ant. It was my Dolabella, or some god.
Dola. Nor I, nor yet Mæcenas, nor
Agrippa:

For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing They were your enemies; and I, a friend,
crowds

Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath

To give their welcome voice.

Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed. Ant. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man,

Who has preserved my life, my love, my
honor;

Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul?
Was not thy fury quite disarmed with won-Let me but see his face.
der?

Didst thou not shrink behind me from those
eyes

And whisper in my ear, "Oh, tell her not That I accused her with my brother's death?"

Dola. And should my weakness be a plea for yours?

Mine was an age when love might be excused,

When kindly warmth, and when my spring-
ing youth

Made it a debt to nature. Yours-
Vent.
Speak boldly.
Yours, he would say, in your declining age,
When no more heat was left but what you
forced,

When all the sap was needful for the trunk,
When it went down, then you constrained
the course,

And robbed from nature, to supply desire;
In you (I would not use so harsh a word)
'Tis but plain dotage.
Ha!

Ant.
Dola.
'Twas urged too home.
But yet the loss was private, that I made;
'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions;
I had no world to lose, no people's love.
Ant. This from a friend?
Dola.

Yes, Antony, a true one;
A friend so tender, that each word I speak
Stabs my own heart, before it reach your

ear.

Vent.
That task is mine,
And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing.

Dola.

[Exit VENTIDIUS. You'll remember When I forget it, greatest

To whom you stand obliged?
Ant.

Be thou unkind, and that's my

curse.

My queen shall thank him too.
Dola.
I fear she will not.
Ant. But she shall do it. The queen, my
Dolabella!

Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy
fever?

Dola. I would not see her lost.
Ant.
When I forsake her,
Leave me, my better stars! for she has
truth

Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her,
At no less price than kingdoms, to betray

me;

But she resisted all: and yet thou chid'st me
For loving her too well. Could I do so?
Dola. Yes; there's my reason.

Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading
ANTONY'S two little Daughters.

Ant. [starting back]. Where?-Octavia
there!

Vent. What, is she poison to you ?—a disease?

Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:

nature

66

Are they all strangers to your eyes? has A man, my equal, in the place of Jove,
As he could give me being? No; that word,
Forgive," would choke me up,
And die upon my tongue.
Dola.

No secret call, no whisper they are yours? Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive 'em

With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet 'em, embrace 'em, bid 'em welcome to you.

Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,

To clasp wings,

'em in; your feet should turn to

To bear you to 'em; and your eyes dart out And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

You shall not need it. Ant. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,—

My friend too!-to receive some vile conditions.

My wife has bought me, with her prayers
and tears;

And now I must become her branded slave.
In every peevish mood, she will upbraid
The life she gave: if I but look awry,
She cries, "I'll tell my brother."
Octav.
My hard fortune
Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.

Vent. I sent for 'em; I brought 'em in But the conditions I have brought are such unknown

To Cleopatra's guards.
Dola.

Yet, are you cold?
Octav. Thus long I have attended for my
welcome;
Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.
Who am I?

Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,

You need not blush to take; I love your
honor,

Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said,
Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.
Sir, you are free; free, even from her you
loathe;

For, though my brother bargains for your
love,

Makes me the price and cement of your peace,

I have a soul like yours; I cannot take

Know, I had still remained in Cæsar's Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.

camp:

But your Octavia, your much injured wife,
Though banished from your bed, driven from
your house,

In spite of Cæsar's sister, still is yours.
'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your cold-
ness,

And prompts me not to seek what you should
offer;

I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;
He shall draw back his troops, and you

shall march

To rule the East; I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where. I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble.

Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen
honor!

But a wife's virtue still surmounts that Both scorn to be obliged.
pride.

I come to claim you as my own; to show
My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kind-

ness.

Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will
have it.
[Taking his hand.
Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it.
Dola.
On my soul,
And so she does: she's neither too submis-
sive,

Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean
Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.
Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged
my life.
Octav.
Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress;
Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.
Octav. Poorly and basely I could never
beg:

Begged it, my lord?

Nor could my brother grant.

Dola. Oh, she has touched him in the
tenderest part;

See how he reddens with despite and shame,
To be outdone in generosity!

Vent. See how he winks! how he dries up
a tear,

That fain would fall!

Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise

The greatness of your soul;

But cannot yield to what you have proposed:
For I can ne'er be conquered but by love;
And you do all for duty. You would free

me,

And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?
Octav. It was, my lord.
Ant.

Then I must be obliged
To one who loves me not; who, to herself,
May call me thankless and ungrateful

man:

Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, I'll not endure it; no. could say,

"Rise up, and be a king;" shall I fall down And cry, "Forgive me, Cæsar!" Shall I set

Vent. [aside]. I am glad it pinches there. Octav. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue?

That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life,

And owed it to my duty, not my love.

I have been injured, and my haughty soul
Could brook but ill the man who slights my
bed.

Ant. Therefore you love me not.
Octav.

I should not love you.

Therefore, my lord,

Ant.
Therefore you would leave me?
Octav. And therefore I should leave you-
if I could.

Dola. Her soul's too great, after such
injuries,

To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it.
Her modesty and silence plead her cause.

Ant. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn?
I find a secret yielding in my soul;
But Cleopatra, who would die with me,
Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia;
But does it not plead more for Cleopatra?
Vent. Justice and pity both plead for
Octavia;

For Cleopatra, neither.

One would be ruined with you; but she first
Had ruined you: the other, you have ruined,
And yet she would preserve you.

In everything their merits are unequal.
Ant. O my distracted soul!
Octav.

Sweet heaven compose it!
Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you,
Methinks you should accept it. Look on
these;

Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected,

As they are mine? Go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him;

Cæsar and we are one.

[Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the Children follow.

Vent. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch,

[Exit.

Be sure to be the first; haste forward:
Haste, my dear eunuch, haste.
Alex. This downright fighting fool, this
thick-skulled hero,

This blunt, unthinking instrument of death,
With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit.
Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy;
The luxury of others robbed my cradle,
And ravished thence the promise of a man.
Cast out from nature, disinherited

Of what her meanest children claim by kind,
Yet greatness kept me from contempt; that's
gone.

Had Cleopatra followed my advice,
Then he had been betrayed who now for-
sakes.

She dies for love; but she has known its
joys:

Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys,

For you may speak, and he may own you Must die, because she loves? too,

Without a blush; and so he cannot all

His children: go, I say, and pull him to me,
And pull him to yourselves, from that bad

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, Train.

O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes!
Octavia's here.

Cleo.

Peace with that raven's note.
I know it too; and now am in
The pangs of death.
Alex.
Egypt is lost.
Cleo.

You are no more a queen;

What tell'st thou me of Egypt?
My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!—
O fatal name to Cleopatra's love!
My kisses, my embraces now are hers;
While I-But thou hast seen my rival;
speak,

Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair?
Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection
Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made
Of that coarse matter, which, when she was
finished,

The gods threw by for rubbish.
Alex. She's indeed a very miracle.
Cleo.

Death to my hopes, a miracle!

Thus would I face my rival.

[Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up to her. Their Trains come up on either side.

Octav. I need not ask if you are Cleo-
patra;

Your haughty carriage-
Cleo.

Octav.

You do not; cannot: been his ruin.

you have Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra?

Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleo-
patra?

Shows I am a queen; At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra.
Who made his children orphans, and poor

Nor need I ask you, who you are.
Octav.

A Roman; A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.

Cleo. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman.

me

A wretched widow? only 'Cleopatra.

Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is
Cleopatra.

If you have suffered, I have suffered more.

Octav. He was a Roman, till he lost that You bear the specious title of a wife,

Your bonds are easy; you have long been
practised

In that lascivious art. He's not the first
For whom you spread your snares: let
Cæsar witness.

Cleo. I loved not Cæsar; 'twas but grati-
tude

I paid his love. The worst your malice can,
Is but to say the greatest of mankind
Has been my slave. The next, but far above
him

In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours,
But whom his love made mine.

To gild your cause, and draw the pitying
world

To favor it; the world contemns poor me,
For I have lost my honor, lost my fame,
And stained the glory of my royal house,
And all to bear the branded name of mis-
tress.

There wants but life, and that too I would
lose

Alex.

They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn! Octav. [coming up close to her]. I would But now she's gone, they faint. view nearer That face, which has so long usurped my To recollect their right,

To find the inevitable charms, that catch
Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord.
Cleo. Oh, you do well to search; for had
you known

But half these charms, you had not lost his
heart.

Octav. Far be their knowledge from a
Roman lady,

Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex,
Dost thou not blush to own those black en-
dearments,

That make sin pleasing?

Mine have had leisure
strength, and furnish
To ruin her, who else must ruin you.
Cleo.

counsel,

Vain promiser! Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras.

My grief has weight enough to sink you
both.

Conduct me to some solitary chamber,
And draw the curtains round;

Then leave me to myself, to take alone
My fill of grief:

There I till death will his unkindness
weep;

Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again. To