And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. (They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front) Vent. Not see him, say you? I say, I must, and will. Gent. He has commanded, Alex. You have your full instructions, now advance; Proclaim your orders loudly. Serap. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labor cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's. On pain of death, none should approach Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! his presence. Vent. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, Give him new life. Gent. He sees not Cleopatra. Vent. Would he had never seen her! not, has no use Of anything, but thought; or if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect. raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass; Sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his Into a scornful smile, and cries, "Take all, Vent. Just, just his nature. 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 re- He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, man. He must not thus be lost. (ALEXAS and the Priests come forward) Be this the general voice sent up to And every public place repeat this echo. Serap. Set out before your doors wreathe your posts, And strew with flow'rs the pavement; let the priests Do present1 sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in gladness. Vent. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of 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 Antony Would mark the day with honors, when all Heaven Labor'd for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour, And shed his better influence. Her own Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, Vent. Would it had slept, 1 immediate He knows him not his executioner. Oh, she has deck'd 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 unmann'd him. Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus alter'd from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinew'd, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honors, And crampt within a corner of the world? O Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God! Could'st thou but make new worlds, so would'st thou give 'em 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! Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arriv'd, to end her charms. 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 ALEXAS, SERAPION) (Re-enter the Gentlemen of M. ANTONY) 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay. I Gent. I dare not disobey him. Vent. Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humor drives: the rest I'll venture. (Withdraws) (Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturb'd motion before he speaks) Ant. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travel'd, Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Cæsar? Vent. (Aside) On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful! Ant. Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starv'd thy wanting age. Vent. (Aside) How sorrow shakes him! So, now the tempest tears him up by th' roots, Thou art her darling mischief, her chief And on the ground extends the noble ruin. engine, (ANTONY 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'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no Ant. Give me some music: look that I'll soothe my melancholy till I swell (Soft music) 'Tis somewhat to my humor: stay, I fancy I'm now turn'd wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look, just of a piece, as I grew from it'; My uncomb'd locks, matted like mistletoe, Vent. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. (Stands before him) Ant. (Starting up) Art thou Ventidius? Vent. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him Ant. I'm angry. Vent. So am I. Ant. I would be private: leave me. And therefore will not leave you. Ant. Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I? Vent. My emperor; the man I love If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin Ant. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then? Vent. 'Twas too presuming To 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 has seen me, art thou For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; Vent. (Weeping) Look, emperor, this I have not wept this forty year; but now Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring My mother comes afresh into my eyes; brook I cannot help her softness. Ant. By Heav'n, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Or I shall blush to death: they set my That caus'd 'em, full before me. Vent. I'll do my best. Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine.-Nay, father! Vent. Emperor. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it, And purple greatness met my ripen'd years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs, Ant. Emperor! Why, that's the style The wish of nations; and the willing of victory; The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt Salutes his general so: but never more Vent. I warrant you. Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh! Vent. It sits too near you. world Receiv'd me as its pledge of future peace; And turn'd her loose; yet still she came again. Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead My careless days, and my luxurious by day, nights, And in my short, distracted, nightly At length have wearied her, and now she's slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams— Vent. Out with it; give it vent. I lost a battle. Vent. So has Julius done. Ant. Thou favor'st me, and speak'st For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly: Vent. Nay, stop not. Ant. Antony,— gone, Gone, gone, divorc'd for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who labor'd to be wretched: Prithee, curse me. Vent. No. Ant. Why? Vent. You are too sensible already Of what y' have done, too conscious of your failings; Well, thou wilt have it,-like a coward, And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first fled, Ant. I have, to th' utmost. Dost thou think me desperate, Without just cause? No, when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping. Vent. Cæsar thinks not so; He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be kill'd like Tully, would you? Do, Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely. Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. Vent. I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. Vent. No, 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy. Up, up, for honor's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: by painful journeys I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces, Their scarr'd cheeks and chopt hands: there's virtue in 'em, They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come. Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promis'd aids, To double my despair? They're muti nous. Vent. Most firm and loyal. Ant. Yet they will not march To succor me. O trifler! Vent. They petition You would make haste to head 'em. Vent. There's but one way shut up: Vent. They would perhaps desire Ant. I have never us'd My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Ant. What was't they said? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province. Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life, No word of Cleopatra; she deserves More worlds than I can lose. Vent. Behold, you Pow'rs, To whom you have intrusted humankind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weigh'd down by one light, worthless woman! I think the gods are Antonies and give, |