:Mar. Look, boy; laid him sure enough. 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 me, 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! Car. Mercy! You blessed angels, take him! Hengo. Kiss me! so. Farewell, farewell! Car. Farewell the hopes of Britain! [Dies. 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, fair flower, 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, Achor. How this may Stand with the rules of policy, I know not; 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; 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, If 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, I think, (and I can find no other reason) Of this rash counsel, their consent not sought for, Because I am a Roman. 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, Achor. What's your opinion Of the success? I have heard, in multitudes 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, Fortune's fair offer: So much, I have heard, Achor. Where are they now? Achil. In Thessaly, near the Pharsalian plains; Where Caesar, with a handful of his men, VOL. I. 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; Your lordship has slept ill to-night, and that Achor. What is the subject? Be free, Septimius. Sept. 'Tis a catalogue Of all the gamesters of the court and city, M 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, To talk what we have done, at least to hear it; Achil. Was't of your own composing? Of a skulking scribbler for two Ptolomies; But the hints were mine own: The wretch was fearful; 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 Achil. See how he hangs On great Photinus' ear. Sept. Hell, and the furies, And all the plagues of darkness, light upon me, Sept. No, sir. ment Given to dispose of monarchies, not to govern Pho. When Pompey was thy general, Septimius, Sept. All my love to him, To Cæsar, Rome, and the whole world, is lost Pho. No more; When I call on you, fall not off: Perhaps, Sept. Ever your creature! [Exit. Pho. Good day, Achoreus. My best friend Hath fame delivered yet no certain rumour Achil. That we are These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave, 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 weapons (The sword) succeeded, which, in civil wars, And other birds of prey, hung o'er both armies, He shews the sacred senate, and forbids them Ptol. The reason, Labienus? Lab. Full well he knows, that in their blood he was To pass to empire, and that through their bowels The nobles, and the commons, lay together, And that his, and the fate of Rome, had left him, That he desired not so much noble blood He has touched upon your shore. The king of Famous in his defeature of the Crassi, 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, Lab. May the gods, [Exit. It is my pleasure. Your advice, and freely. Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion Ptol. What's yours, Photinus? Pho. Achoreus, great Ptolomy, hath counselled, Like a religious and honest man, To be or just, or thankful, makes kings guilty; |