ACT I SCENE I. The Temple of Isis (Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis) Serap. Portents and prodigies are grown so frequent That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flow'd ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Ev'n of the hinds that watch'd it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees that grew On th' utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae1 panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by 'em, Sea horses, floundering in the slimy mud, Toss'd up their heads and dashed the ooze about 'em. (Enter ALEXAS behind them) Myr. Avert these omens, Heav'n! Serap. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle o' th' temple while I walk'd, 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 disclos'd the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, 1 seals An armed ghost start up; the boy-king last Rear'd his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then follow'd, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knock'd; On the cold pavement down I fell entranc'd, And so unfinish'd left the horrid scene. Alex. (Showing himself) And dream'd you this? or did invent the story. To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train 'em up betimes in fear of priesthood? Serap. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what I utter'd was most true. Alex. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. Serap. 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. Serap. 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. Serap. Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege. Alex. Oh, there's the wonder, Maecenas and Agrippa, who can1 most With Cæsar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driv'n 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. Serap. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis' temple, lives retir'd, 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. Serap. If he be vanquish'd, Or make his peace, Egypt is doom'd to be A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivall'd 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 nature, 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; labor to confirm The people's hearts. (Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S) Serap. These Romans will o'erhear us. But, who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanor and erected look, Alex. Oh, 'tis Ventidius, Our emp'ror's great lieutenant in the East, Who first show'd Rome that Parthia could be conquer'd. When Antony return'd from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers. Serap. You seem to know him well. Alex. Too well. I saw him in Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish, A mortal foe he was to us, and Egypt. perish, Each by the other's sword; but, since our will Is lamely follow'd by our power, we must Depend on one, with him to rise or fall. Serap. How stands the queen affected? Alex. Oh, she dotes, 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 She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquish'd O'er all his cooler hours, and morning 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. 1 can accomplish 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 And what's our present work. 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. 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. 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 (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widow'd 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. Ant. Give me some music: look that it be sad; 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, My uncomb'd locks, matted like mistletoe, 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 next Heaven: If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin Y'are all that's good, and god-like. 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 satisfied? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much. Vent. (Weeping) Look, emperor, this is no common dew. 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; |