Part 8

Dir. A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau'ns! O Gods too pittiles!

Caes. What monstrous happ Wilt thou recount?

Dir. Alas too hard mishapp! When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld, My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering quake, I senceles stand, my brest with tempest tost Killes in my throte my wordes, ere fully borne. Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say, This murthering sword hath made the man away.

Caes. Alas my heart doth cleaue, pittie me rackes, My breast doth pant to heare this dolefull tale. Is Antonie then dead? To death, alas! I am the cause despaire him so compelld. But souldiour of his death the maner showe, And how he did this liuing light forgoe.

Dir. When Antonie no hope remaining saw How warre he might, or how agreement make, Saw him betraid by all his men of warre In euery fight as well by sea, as lande; That not content to yeld them to their foes They also came against himselfe to fight: Alone in Court he gan himself torment, Accuse the Queene, himselfe of hir lament, Call'd hir vntrue and traytresse, as who fought To yeld him vp she could no more defend: That in the harmes which for hir sake he bare, As in his blisfull state, she might not share. But she againe, who much his furie fear'd, Gatt to the Tombes, darke horrors dwelling place: Made lock the doores, and pull the hearses downe. Then fell shee wretched, with hir selfe to fight. A thousand plaints, a thousand sobbes she cast From hir weake brest which to the bones was torne, Of women hir the most vnhappie call'd, Who by hir loue, hir woefull loue, had lost Hir realme, hir life, and more, the loue of him, Who while he was, was all hir woes support. But that she faultles was she did inuoke For witnes heau'n, and aire, and earth, and sea. Then sent him worde, she was no more aliue, But lay inclosed dead within hir Tombe. This he beleeu'd; and fell to sigh and grone, And crost his armes, then thus began to mone.

Caes. Poore hopeles man!

Dir. What dost thou more attend? Ah Antonie! why dost thou death deferre? Since Fortune thy professed enimie, Hath made to die, who only made thee liue? Sone as with sighes he had these words vp clos'd, His armor he vnlaste, and cast it of, Then all disarm'd he thus againe did say: My Queene, my heart, the grief that now I feele, Is not that I your eies, my Sunne, do loose, For soone againe one Tombe shal vs conioyne: I grieue, whom men so valorouse did deeme, Should now, then you, of lesser valor seeme. So said, forthwith he Eros to him call'd, Eros his man; summond him on his faith To kill him at his nede. He tooke the sworde, And at that instant stab'd therwith his breast, And ending life fell dead before his fete. O Eros thankes (quoth Antonie) for this Most noble acte, who pow'rles me to kill, On thee hast done, what I on mee should doe. Of speaking thus he scarce had made an ende, And taken vp the bloudie sword from ground, But he his bodie piers'd; and of redd bloud A gushing fountaine all the chamber fill'd. He staggred at the blowe, his face grew pale, And on a couche all feeble downe he fell, Swounding with anguish: deadly cold him tooke, As if his soule had then his lodging left. But he reuiu'd, and marking all our eies Bathed in teares, and how our breasts we beatt For pittie, anguish, and for bitter griefe, To see him plong'd in extreame wretchednes: He prai'd vs all to haste his lingr'ing death: But no man willing, each himselfe withdrew. Then fell he new to crie and vexe himselfe, Vntill a man from Cleopatra came, Who said from hir he had commaundement To bring him to hir to the monument. The poore soule at these words euen rapt with Ioy Knowing she liu'd, prai'd vs him to conuey Vnto his Ladie. Then vpon our armes We bare him to the Tombe, but entred not. For she, who feared captiue to be made, And that she should to Rome in triumph goe, Kept close the gate: but from a window high Cast downe a corde, wherin he was impackt. Then by hir womens helpt the corps she rais'd, And by strong armes into hir windowe drew. So pittifull a sight was neuer sene. Little and little Antonie was pull'd, Now breathing death: his beard was all vnkempt, His face and brest all bathed in his bloud. So hideous yet, and dieng as he was, His eies half-clos'd vppon the Queene he cast: Held vp his hands, and holpe himself to raise, But still with weakenes back his bodie fell. The miserable ladie with moist eies, With haire which careles on hir forhead hong, With brest which blowes had bloudilie benumb'd, With stooping head, and bodie down-ward bent, Enlast hir in the corde, and with all force This life-dead man couragiously vprais'de. The bloud with paine into hir face did flowe, Hir sinewes stiff, her selfe did breathles growe. The people which beneath in flocks beheld, Assisted her with gesture, speech, desire: Cri'de and incourag'd her, and in their soules Did sweate, and labor, no white lesse then shee. Who neuer tir'd in labor, held so long Helpt by hir women, and hir constant heart, That Antonie was drawne into the tombe, And ther (I thinke) of dead augments the summe. The Cittie all to teares and sighes is turn'd, To plaints and outcries horrible to heare: Men, women, children, hoary-headed age Do all pell mell in house and strete lament, Scratching their faces, tearing of their haire, Wringing their hands, and martyring their brests. Extreame their dole: and greater misery In sacked townes can hardlie euer be. Not if the fire had scal'de the highest towers: That all things were of force and murther full; That in the streets the bloud in riuers stream'd; That sonne his sire saw in his bosome slaine, The sire his sonne: the husband reft of breath In his wiues armes, who furious runnes to death. Now my brest wounded with their piteouse plaints I left their towne, and tooke with me this sworde, Which I tooke vp at what time Antonie Was from his chamber caried to the tombe: And brought it you, to make his death more plaine, And that therby my words may credite gaine.

Caes. Ah Gods what cruell happ! poore Antonie, Alas hast thou this sword so long time borne Against thy foe, that in the ende it should Of thee his Lord the cursed murthr'er be? O Death how I bewaile thee! we (alas!) So many warres haue ended, brothers, frends, Companions, coozens, equalls in estate: And must it now to kill thee be my fate?

Ag. Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe? For Antonie why spend you teares in vaine? Why darken you with dole your victorie? Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie. Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods.

Caes. I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament, Although not I, but his owne pride the cause, And vnchaste loue of this AEgyptian.

Agr. But best we sought into the tombe to gett, Lest shee consume in this amazed case So much rich treasure, with which happelie Despaire in death may make hir feed the fire: Suffring the flames hir Iewells to deface, You to defraud, hir funerall to grace. Sende then to hir, and let some meane be vs'd With some deuise so holde hir still aliue, Some faire large promises: and let them marke Whither they may by some fine conning slight Enter the tombes.

Caesar. Let Proculeius goe, And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate. Assure hir so, that we may wholie gett Into our hands hir treasure and hir selfe. For this of all things most I doe desire To kepe hir safe vntill our going hence: That by hir presence beautified may be The glorious triumph Rome prepares for me.

Chorus of Romaine Souldiors.

Shall euer ciuile hate gnaw and deuour our state? Shall neuer we this blade, Our bloud hath bloudie made, Lay downe? these armes downe lay As robes we weare alway? But as from age to age, So passe from rage to rage? Our hands shall we not rest To bath in our owne brest? And shall thick in each land Our wretched trophees stand, To tell posteritie, What madd Impietie Our stonie stomakes ledd Against the place vs bredd? Then still must heauen view The plagues that vs pursue: And euery where descrie Heaps of vs scattred lie, Making the straunger plaines Fatt with our bleeding raines, Proud that on them their graue So manie legions haue. And with our fleshes still Neptune his fishes fill And dronke with bloud from blue The sea take blushing hue: As iuice of Tyrian shell, When clarified well To wolle of finest fields A purple glosse it yelds. But since the rule of Rome, To one mans hand is come, Who gouernes without mate Hir now vnited state, Late iointlie rulde by three Enuieng mutuallie, Whose triple yoke much woe On Latines necks did throwe: I hope the cause of iarre, And of this bloudie warre, And deadlie discord gone By what we last haue done: Our banks shall cherish now The branchie pale-hew'd bow Of Oliue, Pallas praise, In stede of barraine bayes. And that his temple dore, Which bloudie Mars before Held open, now at last Olde Ianus shall make fast: And rust the sword consume, And spoild of wauing plume, The vseles morion shall On crooke hang by the wall. At least if warre returne It shall not here soiourne, To kill vs with those armes Were forg'd for others harmes: But haue their pointes addrest, Against the Germaines brest, The Parthians fayned flight, The Biscaines martiall might. Olde Memorie doth there Painted on forhead weare Our Fathers praise: thence torne Our triumphes baies haue worne: Therby our matchles Rome Whilome of Shepeheards come Rais'd to this greatnes stands, The Queene of forraine lands. Which now euen seemes to face The heau'ns, her glories place: Nought resting vnder Skies That dares affront her eies. So that she needes but feare The weapons Ioue doth beare, Who angrie at one blowe May her quite ouerthrowe.

Act. 5.

Cleopatra. Euphron. Children of Cleopatra. Charmion. Eras.

Cleop.

O cruell Fortune! o accursed lott! O plaguy loue! o most detested brand! O wretched ioyes! o beauties miserable! O deadlie state! o deadly roialtie! O hatefull life! o Queene most lamentable! O Antonie by my fault buriable! O hellish worke of heau'n! alas! the wrath Of all the Gods at once on vs is falne. Vnhappie Queene! o would I in this world The wandring light of day had neuer sene? Alas! of mine the plague and poison I The crowne haue lost my ancestors me left, This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made, And robd my children of their heritage. Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the price Of you deare husband, whome my snares entrap'd: Of you, whom I haue plagu'd, whom I haue made With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe: Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord, Whome I of Empire, honor, life haue spoil'd. O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue, Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe? Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy, Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell? O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death! O Styx! o Phlegethon! you brookes of hell! O Impes of Night!

Euph. Liue for your childrens sake: Let not your death of kingdome them depriue. Alas what shall they do? who will haue care? Who will preserue this royall race of yours? Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I see These little soules to seruile bondage falne, And borne in triumph.

Cl. Ah most miserable!

Euph. Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound At their weake backs.

Cl. Ah Gods what pittie more!

Eph. Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.

Cl. Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.

Euph. And pointed at with fingers as they go.

Cl. Rather a thousand deaths.

Euph. Lastly his knife Some cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.

Cl. Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell, By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade, By my soule, and the soule of Antonie I you beseche, Euphron, of them haue care. Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett That they fall not into this Tyrants handes. Rather conduct them where their freezed locks Black AEthiopes to neighbour Sunne do shewe; On wauie Ocean at the waters will; On barraine cliffes of snowie Caucasus; To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares; And rather, rather vnto euery coaste, To eu'rie land and sea: for nought I feare As rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench. Adieu deare children, children deare adieu: Good Isis you to place of safetie guide, Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leade In free estate deuoid of seruile dread. Remember not, my children, you were borne Of such a Princelie race: remember not So manie braue Kings which haue Egipt rul'de In right descent your ancestors haue bene: That this great Antonie your Father was, Hercules bloud, and more then he in praise. For your high courage such remembrance will, Seing your fall with burning rages fill. Who knowes if that your hands false Destinie The Scepters promis'd of imperiouse Rome, In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare, Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough? Ah learne t' endure: your birth and high estate Forget, my babes, and bend to force of fate. Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos'de With pitie and paine, my self with death enclos'de, My breath doth faile. Farwell for euermore, Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more. Farwell swete care, farwell.