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Say with my latest gasp I groan'd for pardon.
Just here, my friend; hold fast, and fix the sword;
I feel the art'ry where the life-blood lies;
It heaves against the point-Now, O ye gods!
If for the greatly wretched you have room,
Prepare my place; for dauntless, lo, I come.
The force of love thus makes the mortal wound,
And Athenais sends me to the ground.
[Kills himself.

SCENE III.—The outward part of the Temple.
Enter PULCHERIA and JULIA at one Door,

MARCIAN and LUCIUS at another.

Pulch. Look, Julia, see the pensive Marcian comes;

'Tis to my wish; I must no longer lose him,
Lest he should leave the court indeed; he looks
As if some mighty secret work'd within him,
And labour'd for a vent.-Inspire me, woman!
That what my soul desires above the world,
May seem impos'd and forc'd on my affections.
Luc. I say she loves you, and she stays to
hear it

From your own mouth-Now, in the name of all
The gods at once, my lord, why are you silent?
Take heed, sir, mark your opportunity;
For if the woman lays it in your way,
And you o'ersee it, she is lost for ever.
Marc. Madam, I come to take my eternal
leave;

Your doom has banish'd me, and I obey:
The court and I shake hands, and now we part,
Never to see each other more; the court
Where I was born and bred a gentleman,
No more, till your illustrious bounty rais'd me,
And drew the earth-born vapour to the clouds:
But, as the gods ordain'd it, I have lost,

I know not how, through ignorance, your grace;
And now the exhalation of my glory

Is quite consum'd and vanish'd into air.
Pulch. Proceed, sir.

I

say I lov'd you, and I love you still, More than my life, and equal to my glory. Methinks the warring spirit that inspires This frame, the very genius of old Rome, That makes me talk without the fear of death, And drives my daring soul to acts of honour, Flames in your eyes; our thoughts too are akin, Ambitious, fierce, and burn alike for glory. Now, by the gods, I lov'd you in your fury, In all the thunder that quite riv'd my hopes; I lov'd you most, ev'n when you did destroy me. Madam, I've spoke my heart, and could say more, But that I see it grieves you; your high bloodFrets at the arrogance and saucy pride

Of this bold vagabond-May the gods forgive meFarewell-a worthier general may succeed me; But none more faithful to the emperor's interest Than him you are pleas'd to call the traitor Marcian.

Pulch. Come back; you've subt❜ly play'd your part indeed;

For first the emperor, whom you lately school'd, Restores you your commission; next commands you,

As you're a subject, not to leave the court;
Next, but, oh heav'n! which way shall I express
His cruel pleasure, he that is so mild
In all things else, yet obstinate in this,―
Spite of my tears, my birth, and my disdain,
Commands me, as I dread his high displeasure,
O Marcian! to receive you as my husband.

Marc. Ha, Lucius! what, what does my fate

intend?

Luc. Pursue her, sir; 'tis as I said; she yields,
And rages that you follow her no faster.

Pulch. Is then at last my great authority
And my intrusted pow'r declin'd to this?
Yet, oh my fate! what way can I avoid it?
He charg'd me straight to wait him to the temple,
And there resolve, oh Marcian! on this marriage.
Now, generous soldier, as you're truly noble,
O help me forth, lost in this labyrinth;

Marc. Yet let those gods, that doom'd me to Help me to loose this more than gordian-knot

displease you,

Be witnesses how much I honour you—
Thus, worshipping, I swear by your bright self,
I leave this infamous court with more content
Than fools and flatt'rers seek it; but, oh heaven!
I cannot go, if still your hate pursues me!
Yes, I declare it is impossible

To go to banishment without your pardon.
Pulch. You have it, Marcian; is there aught
beside

That you would speak, for I am free to hear? Marc. Since I shall never see you more, what hinders

But

my

last words should here protest the truth? Know then, imperial princess, matchless woman! Since first you cast your eyes upon my meanness, Ev'n till you rais'd me to my envy'd height, I have in secret lov'd you

Pulch. Is this Marcian?

Marc. You frown, but I am still prepar'd for

all;

And make me and yourself for ever happy!

Marc. Madam, I'll speak as briefly as I can.
And as a soldier ought: the only way
To help this knot is yet to tie it faster.
Since then the emperor has resolv'd you mine,
For which I will for ever thank the gods,
And make this holiday throughout my life,
I take him at his word, and claim his promise;
The empire of the world shall not redeem you.
Nay, weep not, madam; though my outside's
rough,

Yet, by those eyes, your soldier has a heart
Compassionate and tender as a virgin's;
Ev'n now it bleeds to see those falling sorrows.
Perhaps this grief may move the emperor
To a repentance; come then to the trial;
For by my arms, my life, and dearer honour,
If you go back, when given me by his hand,
In distant wars my fate I will deplore,
And Marcian's name shall ne'er be heard of
[Exeunt.

more.

SCENE IV.-The Temple.

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

Attic. The more than gordian-knot is ty'd,
Which Death's strong arm shall neʼer 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 fute 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 transport 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

eyes

Draw in their beams; the sleep of death is on her.

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 nicetics 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 thee, my sister, I bequeath the world,
And, yet a gift more great, the gallant Marciau.
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,
No age with such examples could compare,
So great, so good, so virtuous, and so fair!

[Exeunt omnes.

ALL FOR LOVE;

OR,

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

BY

DRYDEN.

PROLOGUE.

}

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.

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SERAPION and MYRIS, Priests of Isis, discovered.

Ser. Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent,

That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile
Flowed, ere the wonted season, with a torrent
So unexpected, and so wond'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

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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, 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

Just breaking on our heads.

Ser. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony, But in their servile hearts they own Octavius. Myr. Why, then, does Antony dream out his

hours,

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. Mecanas 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.
Aler. '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 fiere

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

ture,

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

Ser. How stands the queen affected?
Ater. 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,

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