SCENE IV.-The Temple.

THEODOSIUS, ATHENAIS; ATTICUS joining their hands-MARCIAN, PULCHERIA, LUCIUS, JULIA, DELIA, and LEONTINE.

Attic. The more than gordian-knot is ty'd,
Which Death's strong arm shall ne'er divide;
-For when to bliss ye wafted are,
Your spirits shall be wedded there:
Waters are lost, and fires will die,
But love alone can fate defy.

Enter ARANTHES with the Body of VARANES.
Arant. Where is the empress? Where shall
I find Eudosia?

By fate I'm sent to tell that cruel beauty,
She has robb'd the world of fame; her eyes have
given

A blast to the big blossom of the war.
Behold him there nipp'd in his flow'ry morn,
Compell❜d to break his promise of a day;

A day that conquest would have made her boast;
Behold her laurel wither'd to the root,
Canker'd and kill'd by Athenais' scorn.
Athen. Dead, dead, Varanes!
Theo. O ye eternal pow'rs

That guide the world! why do you shock our

reason

With acts like these, that lay our thoughts in dust?

Forgive me, heaven, this start, or elevate
Imagination more, and make it nothing.
Alas! alas, Varanes! But speak, Aranthes,
The manner of his fate-Groans choke my words,
But speak, and we will answer thee with tears.
Aran. His fever would, no doubt, by this have
done

What some few minutes past his sword perform'd.
He heard from me your progress to the temple,
How you design'd at midnight to deceive him,
By a clandestine marriage: But, my lord,
Had you beheld his racks at my relation;
Or had your empress seen him in those torments,
When from his dying eyes, swol'n to the brim,
The big round drops roll'd down his manly face;
When from his hallowed breast a murmuring

crowd

Of groans rush'd forth, and echo'd all is well: Then had you seen him, O ye cruel gods! Rush on the sword I held against his breast, And dye it to the hilt, with these last wordsBear me to Athenais

Athen. Give me way, my lord;

I have most strictly kept my promise with you:
I am your bride, and you can ask no more,
Or, if you did, I'm past the power to give;
But here! O here! on his cold bloody breast,
Thus let me breathe my last.

Theo. O, empress! what, what can this trans-
port mean?

Are these our nuptials? These my promis'd joys?
Athen. Forgive me, sir, this last respect I pay
These sad remains-And oh, thou mighty spirit!
If yet thou art not mingled with the stars,
Look down and hear the wretched Athenais!
When thou shalt know, before I gave consent
To this indecent marriage, I had taken
Into my veins a cold and deadly draught,
Which soon would render me, alas! unfit
For the warm joys of an imperial lover,
And make me ever thine, yet keep my word
With Theodosius, wilt thou not forgive me?

Theo. Poison'd to free thee from the emperor!
Oh, Athenais! thou hast done a deed
That tears my heart! What have I done against
thee,

That thou should'st brand me thus with infamy
And everlasting shame? Thou might'st have made
Thy choice without this cruel act of death;
I left thee to thy will, and in requital
Thou hast murder'd all my fame!-
Athen. O pardon me!

I lay my dying body at your feet,

And beg, my lord, with my last sighs intreat you,
To impute the fault, if 'tis a fault, to love,
And the ingratitude of Athenais,

To her too cruel stars. Remember, too,
I beg'd you would not let me see the prince,
Presaging what has happen'd; yet my word,
As to our nuptials, was inviolable.

Theo. Ha! she is going!-see her languishing

Athen. Farewell, my lord! Alas, alas, Varanes! To embrace thee now is not immodesty; Or, if it were, I think my bleeding heart Would make me criminal in death to clasp thee, Break all the tender niceties of honour, To fold thee thus, and warm thee into life; For oh what man, like him, could woman move! O prince belov'd! O spirit most divine! Thus, by my death, I give thee all my love, And seal my soul and body ever thine.- [Dies. Theo. O Marcian! O Pulcheria! did not the

power

Whom we adore, plant all his thunderbolts
Against self-murderers, I would perish too;
But as I am, I swear to leave the empire.
To thec, my sister, I bequeath the world,
And, yet a gift more great, the gallant Marcian.
On then, my friend, now shew thy Roman spirit!
As to her sex fair Athenais was,

Be thou to thine a pattern of true honour;
Thus we'll atone for all the present crimes,
That yet it may be said in after-times,
Νο age with such examples could compare,
So great, so good, so virtuous, and so fair!
[Exeunt omnes.

WHAT flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play !'
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Our's gives himself for gone, you've watch'd
your time!

He fights this day unarm'd, without his rhyme ;
And brings a tale which often has been told,
As sad as Dido's, and almost as old..
His hero, whom you wits his bully call,
Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all:
He's somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind,
Weeps much, fights little, but is wond'rous kind;
In short, a pattern and companion fit
For all the keeping Tonies of the pit.

I could name more: a wife, and mistress too;
Both, (to be plain) too good for most of you,
The wife well-natured, and the mistress true.
Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,
Allow him all the candour you can spare.
A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day,

Like Hectors, in at every party-fray.

Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,
They've need to show that they can think at all:
Errors like straws upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls, must dive below
Fops may have leave to level all they can,
As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.
Half wits are fleas; so little and so light,
We scarce could know they live, but that they
bite.

But as the rich, when tired with daily feasts,
For change, become their next poor tenant's guests,
Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown
bowls,

And snatch the homely rasher from the coals;
So you, retiring from much better cheer,
For once, may venture to do penance here.
And since that plenteous autumn now is past,
Whose grapes and peaches have indulg'd your

taste,

Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.

SCENE I-The Temple of Isis.

SERAPION and MYRIS, Priests of Isis, discovered. Ser. Portents and prodigies are grown so fre

quent,

That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile
Flowed, ere the wonted season, with a torrent
So unexpected, and so wont'rous fierce,
That the wild deluge overtook the haste
Even of the hinds, that watched it. Men and
beasts

Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew
On the utmost margin of the water-mark;
Then with so swift an ebb the flood drove back-
ward,

It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:
Here monstrous phocæ panted on the shore;
Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails,
Lay lashing the departing waves; hard by them
Sea-horses, floundering in the slimy mud,
Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about
them.

Enter ALEXAS behind them.
Myr. Avert these omens, Heaven !
Ser. Last night, between the hours of twelve
and one,

In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked,
A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,
Shook all the dome; the doors around me clapt;
The iron wicket, that defends the vault,
Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,
Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead:
From out each monument, in order placed,
An armed ghost starts up; the boy-king last
Reared his inglorious head: a peal of groans

Then followed, and a lamentable voice

Cried, Egypt is no more.' My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked, On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene!

Alex. And dreamt you this, or did invent the story, [Shewing himself. To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up betimes in fear of priesthood? Ser. My lord, I saw you not,

Nor meant my words should reach your ears;

but what

I uttered was most true.

Alex. A foolish dream,

Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts
And holy luxury.

Ser. I know my duty:
This goes no farther.

Alex. 'Tis not fit it should,

Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern from yon hills the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening, like a storm

And tempts not fortune for a noble day,
Which might redeem what Actium lost?
Alex. He thinks 'tis past recovery.
Ser. Yet the foe
Seems not to press

the siege.

Alex. Oh, there's the wonder. Mecænas and Agrippa, who can most With Cæsar, are his foes; his wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge now seeks his ruin; Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

Ser. 'Tis strange, that Antony, for some days past,

Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra,
But here in Isis' temple lives retired,
And makes his heart a prey to black despair.
Alex. "Tis true; and we much fear he hopes,
by absence,

To cure his mind of love.

Ser. If he be vanquished,

Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be
A Roman province, and our plenteous harvests
Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil.
While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria
Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat),
And Fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,
Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

Alex. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all na

ture,

Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish, perish,
Each by the other's sword; but since our will
Is lamely followed by our power, we must
Depend on one, with him to rise or fall.

Ser. How stands the queen affected?"
Alex. Oh, she doats,

She doats, Serapion, on this vanquished man,
And winds herself about his mighty ruins,
Whom, would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,
This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands,
She might preserve us all : but 'tis in vain—
This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,
And makes me use all means to keep him here,
Whom I could wish divided from her arms
Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know
The state of things; no more of your
ill omens
And black prognostics; labour to confirm
The people's hearts.

Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a gentle man of ANTONY'S.

Ser. These Romans will o'erhear us.
But who's that stranger? by his warlike port,
His fierce demeanor, and erected look,

He is of no vulgar note.

Alex. Oh, 'tis Ventidius,

Our emperor's great lieutenant in the east, Who first shewed Rome, that Parthia could be conquered.

When Antony returned from Syria last,

He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.
Ser. You seem to know him well.
Aler, Too well. I saw him in Cilicia first,
When Cleopatra there met Antony.
A mortal foe he was to us and Egypt;
But let me witness to the worth I hate :
A braver Roman never drew a sword;
Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave;
He ne'er was of his pleasures, but presides
O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels:
In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue
Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him.
His coming bodes, I know not what, of ill
To our affairs. Withdraw, to mark him better,
And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here,
And what's our present work.

Virtue's his path, but sometimes 'tis too narrow
For his vast soul, and then he starts out wide,
And bounds into a vice, that bears him far
From his first course, and plunges him in ills:
But when his danger makes him find his fault,
Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,
He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,
Judging himself with malice to himself,
And not forgiving what as man he did,
Because his other parts are more than man.
He must not thus be lost.

[ALEXAS and the priests come forward. Alex. You have your full instructions; now ad

vance;

Proclaim your orders loudly.

Ser. Romans! Egyptians! hear the queen's command;

Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;
To pomp and triumphs give this happy day,
That gave the world a lord; 'tis Antony's.

Live Antony, and Cleopatra live!
Be this the general voice sent up to heaven,
And every public place repeat this echo.
Vent. Fine pageantry!

[Aside.

Ser. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreathe your posts,

And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priest

Do present sacrifice, pour out the wine,
And call the gods to join with you in gladness,
Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this ge
neral joy!

Can they be friends to Antony, who revel
When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame,
You Romans, your great grandsires' images,
For fear their souls should animate their marbles,
To blush at their degenerate progeny.

Alex. A love, which knows no bounds to An-
tony,

Would mark the day with honours, when all'
Heaven

Laboured for him, when each propitious star
Stood wakeful in his orb to watch that hour,
And shed his better influence: her own birth-day
Our queen neglected, like a vulgar fate,
That passed obscurely by.

Vent. Would it had slept

Divided far from his, till some remote
And future age had called it out, to ruin
Some other prince, not him!

Alex. Your emperor,

Though grown unkind, would be more gentle than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well. Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest?

He knows him not his executioner.

Oh! she has decked his ruin with her love,
Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,
And made perdition pleasing: she has left him
The blank of what he was;

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him.
Can any Roman see and know him now,
Thus altered, from the lord of half mankind,
Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy,
Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,
And crampt within a corner of the world?
Oh, Antony!

Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends ! '
Bounteous as nature, next to nature's God!
Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst

thou give them,

As bounty were thy being. Rough in battle,
As the first Romans when they went to war,
Yet, after victory, more pitiful

Than all their praying virgins left at home!
Alex. Would you could add to those more
shining virtues,
His truth to her, who loves him.

Vent. Would I could not!

But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee? Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived to end her charins.

Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets. You dare not fight for Antony; go pray, And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEX. SER. Re-enter the Gentleman of MARC ANTONY. 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands,

On pain of death, that none presume to stay. 1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other. Vent. Well, I dare: But I'll observe him first, unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll ven

ture.

[Withdraws.

Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks.

And therefore will not leave you. Ant. Will not leave me!

With double pomp of sadness:

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

Till all my fires were spent, and then cast down

ward,

To be trod out by Cæsar?

Vent. [Aside] On my soul

'Tis mournful, wond'rous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains

Now, Antony; wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.

Vent. [Aside] How sorrow shakes him!
So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.
Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there,
thou shadow of an emperor;
The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth,
Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou art contracted in thy narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia,
(For Cleopatra will not live to see it)
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,
To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't

Give me some music; look, that it be sad.
I'll sooth my melancholy, till I swell
And burst myself with sighing.— [Soft music.
'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy
I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all,
Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene;
Stretched at my length beneath some blasted

oak,

I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
And look just of a piece as I grew from it:
My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook
Runs at my foot-

Vent. My emperor; the man I love next hea

ven:

If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:
You're all that's good and godlike.

Ant. All that's wretched.
You will not leave me then?

Vent. 'Twas too presuming

Το
say I would not; but I dare not leave you;
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence
So soon, when I so far have come to see you.
Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satis-
fied?

For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough,
And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew: [Weeping

I have not wept this forty years, but now
My mother comes afresh into my eyes;
I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By heaven he weeps! Poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks. Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame, That caused them, full before me.