lengo. Have you knocked his brains out? ar. I warrant thee for stirring more: Cheer up, child.
Tengo. Hold my sides hard; stop, stop; oh, wretched fortune,
Cast we part thus? Still I grow sicker, uncle. Car. Heaven look upon this noble child! Hengo. I once hoped
hould have lived to have met these bloody Romans
my sword's point, to have reveuged my father, have beaten them. Oh, hold me hard! But, uncle
Car. Thou shalt live still, I hope, boy. Shall I draw it?
Hengo. You draw away my soul, then; I would live
little longer, (spare me, Heavens!) but only > thank you for your tender love! Good uncle, ood noble uncle, weep not!
Car. Oh, my chicken,
y dear boy, what shall I lose? Hengo. Why, a child,
hat must have died however; had this 'scaped
ever or famine-I was born to die, sir.
Car. But thus unblown, my boy?
Hengo. I go the straighter
Car. Oh, Romans, see what here is! Had this boy lived
Suet. For fame's sake, for thy sword's sake, As thou desir❜st to build thy virtues greater! By all that's excellent in man, and honest
Car. I do believe. Ye've made me a brave foe;
ly journey to the gods. Sure I shall know you, Make me a noble friend, and from your goodness,
When you come, uncle?
Car. Yes, boy.
Hengo. And I hope
We shall enjoy together that great blessedness,
lou told me of.
Car. Most certain, child.
Hengo. I grow cold;
Mine eyes are going.
Car. Lift them up!
Hengo. Pray for me;
And, noble uncle, when my bones are ashes,
Think of your little nephew! Mercy!
You blessed angels, take him!
Hengo. Kiss me! so.
Farewell, farewell!
Car. Farewell the hopes of Britain!
Thou royal graft, farewell for ever! Time and death,
You've done your worst. Fortune, now see, now proudly
Pluck off thy veil, and view thy triumph: Look, Look what thou hast brought this land to. Oh,
How lovely yet thy ruins shew, how sweetly Even death embraces thee! The peace of heaven, The fellowship of all great souls, be with thee!
Give this boy honourable earth to lie in! Suet. He shall have fitting funeral.
(Whose memory I bow to) left co-heir In all he stood possessed of.
Achil. 'Tis confessed,
My good Achoreus, that, in these eastern kingdoms,
Women are not exempted from the sceptre,
But claim a privilege equal to the male;
But how much such divisions have ta'en from
The majesty of Egypt, and what factions
Have sprung from those partitions, to the ruin
Of the poor subject, doubtful which to follow,
We have too many and too sad examples:
Therefore the wise Photinus, to prevent
The murders, and the massacres, that attend
On disunited government, and to shew
The king without a partner, in full splendour,
Thought it convenient the fair Cleopatra
(An attribute not frequent in this climate)
Should be committed to safe custody,
In which she is attended like her birth,
Until her beauty, or her royal dower,
Hath found her out a husband.
Stand with the rules of policy, I know not;
Most sure I am, it holds no correspondence
With the rites of Egypt, or the laws of nature.
But, grant that Cleopatra can sit down
With this disgrace, though insupportable,
Can you imagine, that Rome's glorious senate,
To whose charge, by the will of the dead king,
This government was delivered, or great Pompey,
That is appointed Cleopatra's guardian,
As well as Ptolomy's, will e'er approve
Hems in the greater number. His whole troops Exceed not twenty thousand, but old soldiers, Fleshed in the spoils of Germany and France, Inured to his command, and only know
To fight and overcome: And though that famine Reigns in his camp, compelling them to taste Bread made of roots, forbid the use of man, (Which they, with scorn, threw into Pompey's camp,
As in derision of his delicates)
Or corn not yet half ripe, and that a banquet;
They still besiege him, being ambitious only
To come to blows, and let their swords determine
Who hath the better cause.
Enter SEPTIMIUS.
Achor. May victory Attend on it, where'er it is. Achil. We every hour Expect to hear the issue.
Sept. Save my good lords!
By Isis and Osiris, whom you worship,
And the four hundred gods and goddesses,
Adored in Rome, I am your honours' servant.
Achor. Truth needs, Septimius, no oaths.
Achil. You're cruel;
you deny him swearing, you take from him Three full parts of his language.
Sept. Your honour's bitter.
Confound me, where I love, I cannot say it,
But I must swear it: Yet such is my ill fortune,
Nor vows nor protestations win belief;
I think, (and I can find no other reason)
Of this rash counsel, their consent not sought for, Because I am a Roman.
That should authorize it?
Achil. The civil war,
In which the Roman empire is embarked
On a rough sea of danger, does exact
Their whole care to preserve themselves, and gives them
No vacant time to think of what we do,
Which hardly can concern them.
Achor. What's your opinion
Of the success? I have heard, in multitudes
Of soldiers, and all glorious pomp of war,
Pompey is much superior.
Achit. I could give you
A catalogue of all the several nations,
From whence he drew his powers; but that were tedious.
They have rich arms, are ten to one in number,
Which makes them think the day already won;
And Pompey being master of the sea,
Such plenty of all delicates are brought in,
As if the place, on which they are entrenched,
Were not a camp of soldiers, but Rome,
In which Lucullus and Apicius joined
To make a public feast. They at Dirachium
Fought with success; but knew not to make use
of
Fortune's fair offer: So much, I have heard,
Casar himself confessed.
Achor. Where are they now?
Achil. In Thessaly, near the Pharsalian plains; Where Caesar, with a handful of his men,
Achor. No, Septimius?
To be a Roman were an honour to you,
Did not your manners and your life take from it, And cry aloud, that from Rome you bring nothing But Roman vices, which you would plant here, But no seed of her virtues.
Sept. With your reverence, I am too old to learn.
Achor. Any thing honest;
That I believe without an oath.
Sept. I fear
Your lordship has slept ill to-night, and that
Invites this sad discourse; 'twill make you old
Before your time. Oh, these virtuous morals,
And old religious principles, that fool us!
I've brought you a new song will make you laugh,
Though you were at your prayers.
Achor. What is the subject?
Be free, Septimius.
Sept. 'Tis a catalogue
Of all the gamesters of the court and city,
Which lord lies with that lady, and what gallant.
Sports with that merchant's wife; and does relate
Who sells her honour for a diamond,
Who for a tissue robe; whose husband's jealous,
And who so kind, that, to share with his wife,
Will make the match himself: Harmless conceits,
Though fools say they are dangerous. I sang it.
The last night, at my lord Photinus' table.
Achor. How? as a fiddler?
Sept. No, sir, as a guest,
A welcome guest too; and it was approved of By a dozen of his friends, though they were touched in it:
For, look you, 'tis a kind of merriment,
When we have laid by foolish modesty,
(As not a man of fashion will wear it)
To talk what we have done, at least to hear it;
If merrily set down, it fires the blood,
And heightens crest-fallen appetite.
Achor. New doctrine!
Achil. Was't of your own composing?
Sept. No, I bought it
Of a skulking scribbler for two Ptolomies;
But the hints were mine own: The wretch was
But I have damned myself, should it be ques- To wear a kingly wreath, and your grave judge
Enter PHOTINUS and SEPTIMIUS.
Achor. No more of him,
He is not worth our thoughts; a fugitive
From Pompey's army, and now in a danger,
When he should use his service.
Achil. See how he hangs
On great Photinus' ear.
Sept. Hell, and the furies,
And all the plagues of darkness, light upon me,
You are my god on earth! and let me have
Your favour here, fall what can fall hereafter !
Pho. Thou art believed; dost thou want mo-
ney?
Given to dispose of monarchies, not to govern
A child's affairs. The people's eye's upon you,
The soldier courts you: Will you wear a garment
Of sordid loyalty, when 'tis out of fashion?
Pho. When Pompey was thy general, Septimius,
Thou saidst as much to him.
Sept. All my love to him,
To Cæsar, Rome, and the whole world, is lost
In the ocean of your bounties: I've no friend,
Project, design, or country, but your favour,
Which I'll preserve at any rate.
When I call on you, fall not off: Perhaps,
Sooner than you expect, I may employ you;
So, leave me for a while.
Sept. Ever your creature!
Pho. Good day, Achoreus. My best friend
Achillas,
Hath fame delivered yet no certain rumour
Of the great Roman action?
These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave,
Speak Pompey's loss. To tell you of the battle,
How many thousand several bloody shapes
Death wore that day in triumph; how we bore
The shock of Cæsar's charge; or with what fury
Pho. Or hast thou any suit? These ever follow His soldiers came on, as if they had been
So many Cæsars, and, like him, ambitious
To tread upon the liberty of Rome:
How fathers killed their sons, or sons their fathers;
Or how the Roman piles on either side
Drew Roman blood, which spent, the prince of
(The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars,
Appoints the tent, on which winged victory
Shall make a certain stand: then, how the plains
Flowed o'er with blood, and what a cloud of vul-
tures,
And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies,
Attending, when their ready servitors,
The soldiers, from whom the angry gods
Had took all sense of reason and of pity,
Would serve in their own carcasses for a feast;
How Cæsar, with his javelin, forced them on,
That made the least stop, when their angry hands
Were lifted up against some known friend's face;
Then, coming to the body of the army,
He shews the sacred senate, and forbids them
To waste their force upon the common soldier,
(Whom willingly, if e'er he did know pity,
He would have spared)-
Ptol. The reason, Labienus?
Lab. Full well he knows, that in their blood he
To pass to empire, and that through their bowels
He must invade the laws of Rome, and give
A period to the liberty o' th' world.
Then fell the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini,
The famed Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelli,
Names, next to Pompey's, most renowned on
earth.
The nobles, and the commons, lay together,
And Pontic, Punic, and Assyrian blood,
Made up one crimson lake: Which Pompey see-
ing,
And that his, and the fate of Rome, had left him,
Standing upon the rampier of his camp,
Though scorning all that could fall on himself,
He pities them, whose fortunes are embarked
In his unlucky quarrel; cries aloud too,
That they should sound retreat, and save them-
selves:
That he desired not so much noble blood
Should be lost in his service, or attend
On his misfortunes: And then, taking horse,
With some few of his friends, he came to Lesbos,
And, with Cornelia, his wife, and sons,
He has touched upon your shore. The king of
Parthia,
Famous in his defeature of the Crassi,
Offered him his protection; but Pompey,
Relying on his benefits, and your faith,
Hath chosen Egypt for his sanctuary,
'Till he may recollect his scattered powers,
And try a second day. Now, Ptolomy,
Though he appear not like that glorious thing,
That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws
To conquered nations, and made crowns his gift,
(As this of yours, your noble father took
From his victorious hand, and you still wear it
At his devotion) to do you more honour
In his declined estate, as the straightest pine
In a full grove of his yet-flourishing friends, He flies to you for succour, and expects The entertainment of your father's friend, And guardian to yourself.
Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune,
As much as if the crown I wear (his gift)
Were ravished from me, is a holy truth,
Our gods can witness for me: Yet, being young,
And not a free disposer of myself,
Let not a few hours, borrowed for advice,
Beget suspicion of unthankfulness,
Which, next to hell, I hate. Pray you retire,
And take a little rest; and let his wounds
Be with that care attended, as they were
Carved on my flesh. Good Labienus, think
The little respite I desire shall be
Wholly employed to find the readiest way
To do great Pompey service.
Lab. May the gods,
As you intend, protect you!
Ptol. Sit, sit all;
It is my pleasure. Your advice, and freely.
Achor. A short deliberation in this,
May serve to give you counsel. To be honest,
Religious, and thankful, in themselves
Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish
Or gloss in the persuader; your kept faith,
Though Pompey never rise to th' height he's
fallen from,
Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion
Is, still committing it to graver censure,
You pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard
Of all you can call yours.
Ptol. What's yours, Photinus?
Pho. Achoreus, great Ptolomy, hath counselled,
Like a religious and honest man,
Worthy the honour that he justly holds
In being priest to Isis. But, alas,
What in a man, sequestered from the world,
Or in a private person, is preferred,
No policy allows of in a king:
To be or just, or thankful, makes kings guilty;
And faith, though praised, is punished, that sup-
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