Alas hast thou this sword so long time borneAgainst thy foe, that in the ende it shouldOf thee his Lord the cursed murthr’er be?O Deathhow I bewaile thee! we (alas!)So many warres haue ended, brothers, frends,Companions, coozens, equalls in estate:And must it now to kill thee be my fate?Ag.Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?ForAntoniewhy spend you teares in vaine?Why darken you with dole your victorie?Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie.Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods.Cæs.I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,And vnchaste loue of thisÆgyptian.Agr.But best we sought into the tombe to gett,Lest shee consume in this amazed caseSo much rich treasure, with which happelieDespaire in death may make hir feed the fire:Suffring the flames hir Iewells to deface,You to defraud, hir funerall to grace.Sende then to hir, and let some meane be vs’dWith some deuise so holde hir still aliue,Some faire large promises: and let them markeWhither they may by some fine conning slightEnter the tombes.Cæsar.LetProculeiusgoe,And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate.Assure hir so, that we may wholie gettInto our hands hir treasure and hir selfe.For this of all things most I doe desireTo kepe hir safe vntill our going hence:That by hir presence beautified may beThe glorious triumphRomeprepares forme.Chorus of RomaineSouldiors.Shall euer ciuilehategnaw and deuour our state?Shall neuer we this blade,Our bloud hath bloudie made,Lay downe? these armes downe layAs robes we weare alway?But as from age to age,So passe from rage to rage?Our hands shall we not restTo bath in our owne brest?And shall thick in each landOur wretched trophees stand,To tell posteritie,What madd ImpietieOur stonie stomakes leddAgainst the place vs bredd?Then still must heauen viewThe plagues that vs pursue:And euery where descrieHeaps of vs scattred lie,Making the straunger plainesFatt with our bleeding raines,Proud that on them their graueSo manie legions haue.And with our fleshes stillNeptunehis fishes fillAnd dronke with bloud from blueThe sea take blushing hue:As iuice ofTyrianshell,When clarified wellTo wolle of finest fieldsA purple glosse it yelds.But since the rule ofRome,To one mans hand is come,Who gouernes without mateHir now vnited state,Late iointlie rulde by threeEnuieng mutuallie,Whose triple yoke much woeOnLatinesnecks did throwe:I hope the cause of iarre,And of this bloudie warre,And deadlie discord goneBy what we last haue done:Our banks shall cherish nowThe branchie pale-hew’d bowOfOliue,Pallaspraise,In stede of barraine bayes.And that his temple dore,Which bloudieMarsbeforeHeld open, now at lastOldeIanusshall make fast:And rust the sword consume,And spoild of wauing plume,The vseles morion shallOn crooke hang by the wall.At least if warre returneIt shall not here soiourne,To kill vs with those armesWere forg’d for others harmes:But haue their pointes addrest,Against theGermainesbrest,TheParthiansfaynedflight,TheBiscainesmartiall might.Olde Memorie doth therePainted on forhead weareOur Fathers praise: thence torneOur triumphes baies haue worne:Therby our matchlesRomeWhilome of Shepeheards comeRais’d to this greatnes stands,The Queene of forraine lands.Which now euen seemes to faceThe heau’ns, her glories place:Nought resting vnder SkiesThat dares affront her eies.So that she needes but feareThe weaponsIouedoth beare,Who angrie at one bloweMay her quite ouerthrowe.Act. 5.Cleopatra. Euphron. Children of Cleopatra.Charmion. Eras.Cleop.O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!O plaguy loue! ô most detested brand!O wretched ioyes! ô beauties miserable!O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!OAntonieby my fault buriable!O hellish worke of heau’n! alas! the wrathOf all the Gods at once on vs is falne.Vnhappie Queene! ô would I in this worldThe wandring light of day had neuer sene?Alas! of mine the plague and poison IThe crowne haue lost my ancestors me left,This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made,And robd my children of their heritage.Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the priceOf you deare husband, whome my snares entrap’d:Of you, whom I haue plagu’d, whom I haue madeWith bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord,Whome I of Empire, honor, life haue spoil’d.O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue,Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe?Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy,Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!OStyx! ôPhlegethon! you brookes of hell!O Impes ofNight!Euph.Liue for your childrens sake:Let not your death of kingdome them depriue.Alas what shall they do? who will haue care?Who will preserue this royall race of yours?Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I seeThese little soules to seruile bondage falne,And borne in triumph.Cl.Ah most miserable!Euph.Their tender armes with cursed corde fast boundAt their weake backs.Cl.Ah Gods what pittie more!Eph.Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.Cl.Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.Euph.And pointed at with fingers as they go.Cl.Rather a thousand deaths.Euph.Lastly his knifeSome cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.Cl.Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,By my soule, and the soule ofAntonieI you beseche,Euphron, of them haue care.Be their good Father, let your wisedome lettThat they fall not into this Tyrants handes.Rather conduct them where their freezed locksBlackÆthiopesto neighbour Sunne do shewe;On wauieOceanat the waters will;On barraine cliffes of snowieCaucasus;To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;And rather, rather vnto euery coaste,To eu’rie land and sea: for nought I feareAs rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench.Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:GoodIsisyou to place of safetie guide,Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leadeIn free estate deuoid of seruile dread.Remember not, my children, you were borneOf such a Princelie race: remember notSo manie braue Kings which haueEgiptrul’deIn right descent your ancestors haue bene:That this greatAntonieyour Father was,Herculesbloud, and more then he in praise.For your high courage such remembrance will,Seing your fall with burning rages fill.Who knowes if that your hands falseDestinieThe Scepters promis’d of imperiouseRome,In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare,Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough?Ah learne t’ endure: your birth and high estateForget, my babes, and bend to force of fate.Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos’deWith pitie and paine, my self with death enclos’de,My breath doth faile. Farwell for euermore,Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more.Farwell swete care, farwell.Chil.Madame Adieu.Cl.Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde.I can no more, I die.Eras.Madame, alas!And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to vs.Eup.Come children.Chil.We come.Eup.Follow we our chaunce.The Gods shall guide vs.Char.O too cruell lott!O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,What shall we do, alas! if murthring darteOf death arriue while that in slumbring swoundHalf dead she lie with anguish ouergone?Er.Her face is frozen.Ch.Madame for Gods loueLeaue vs not thus: bidd vs yet first farwell.Alas! wepe ouerAntonie: Let notHis bodie be without due rites entomb’de.Cl.Ah, ah.Char.Madame.Cle.Ay me!Cl.How fainte she is?Cl.My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I,How cursed am! and was ther euer oneBy Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?Ah, weepingNiobe, although thy hartBeholdes itselfe enwrap’d in causefull woeFor thy dead children, that a senceless rockeWith griefe become, onSipylusthou stand’stIn endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feeleThe weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost,And lost their Father, more then them I waile,Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wratheInto a Stone not yet transformed hath.Phaetonssisters, daughters of the Sunne,Which waile your brother falne into the streamesOf statelyPo: the Gods vpon the bankesYour bodies to banke-louing Alders turn’d.For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe,Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.DieCleopatrathen, no longer stayFromAntonie, who thee atStyxattends:Goe ioine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no moreWithout his loue within these tombes enclos’d.Eras.Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine deathFrom him our teares, and those last duties takeVnto his tombe we owe.Ch.Ah let vs wepeWhile moisture lasts, then die before his feete.Cl.who furnish will mine eies with streaming tearesMy boiling anguish worthilie to waile,Waile theeAntonie,Antoniemy heart?Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drieBy long beweeping my disastred harmes.Now reason is that from my side they suckeFirst vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.Moist it, and heate it newe, and neuer stopp,All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.Cha.Antonietake our teares: this is the lastOf all the duties we to thee can yelde,Before we die.Er.These sacred obsequiesTakeAntony, and take them in good parte.Cl.O Goddesse thou whomCyprusdoth adore,VenusofPaphos, bent to worke vs harmeFor oldeIulusbroode, if thou take careOfCæsar, why of vs tak’st thou no care?Antoniedid descend, as well as he,From thine own Sonne by long enchained line:And might haue rul’d by one and self same fate,TrueTroianbloud, the statelieRomainstate.Antonie, pooreAntonie, my deare soule,Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,Which yet for tents to warlikeMarsdid serue,Lock’d vp in lidds (as faire daies cherefull lightWhich darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.Antonieby our true loues I thee beseche,And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire,Our holy mariage, and the tender rutheOf our deare babes, knot of our amitie:My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,Thy wife, thy frend: heareAntonie, ô heareMy sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there.Liued thus long, the winged race of yearesEnded I haue asDestiniedecreed,Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken iust reuengeOf him who me both hated and despisde.Happie, alas too happie! if ofRomeOnly the fleete had hither neuer come.And now of me an Image great shall goeVnder the earth to bury there my woe.What say I? where am I? ôCleopatra,PooreCleopatra, griefe thy reason reaues.No, no, most happie in this happles case,To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:My bodie ioynde with thine, my mouth with thine,My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes haue dried:To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest,And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest.The sharpest torment in my heart I feeleIs that I staie from thee, my heart, this while.Die will I straight now, now streight will I die,And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,Vnder theCyprestrees thou haunt’st alone,Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone.But yet I stay, and yet thee ouerliue,That ere I die due rites I may thee giue.A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne:My haire shall serue for thy oblations,My boiling teares for thy effusions,Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame(Which burnt thy heart on me enamour’d) came.Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eiesRaine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.Mine can no more, consumed by the coalesWhich from my breast, as from a furnace, rise.Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,With violent hands teare of your hanging haire,Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke(Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe?I spent in teares, not able more to spende,But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?Then lett me kisse you, you faire eies, my light,Front seate of honor, face most fierce, most faire!O neck, ô armes, ô hands, ô breast where death(Oh mischief) comes to choake vp vitall breath.A thousand kisses, thousand thousand moreLet you my mouth for honors farewell giue:Thatin this office weake my limmes may growe,Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flowe.At Ramsburie. 26. of Nouember.1590.
Alas hast thou this sword so long time borneAgainst thy foe, that in the ende it shouldOf thee his Lord the cursed murthr’er be?O Deathhow I bewaile thee! we (alas!)So many warres haue ended, brothers, frends,Companions, coozens, equalls in estate:And must it now to kill thee be my fate?Ag.Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?ForAntoniewhy spend you teares in vaine?Why darken you with dole your victorie?Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie.Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods.Cæs.I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,And vnchaste loue of thisÆgyptian.Agr.But best we sought into the tombe to gett,Lest shee consume in this amazed caseSo much rich treasure, with which happelieDespaire in death may make hir feed the fire:Suffring the flames hir Iewells to deface,You to defraud, hir funerall to grace.Sende then to hir, and let some meane be vs’dWith some deuise so holde hir still aliue,Some faire large promises: and let them markeWhither they may by some fine conning slightEnter the tombes.Cæsar.LetProculeiusgoe,And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate.Assure hir so, that we may wholie gettInto our hands hir treasure and hir selfe.For this of all things most I doe desireTo kepe hir safe vntill our going hence:That by hir presence beautified may beThe glorious triumphRomeprepares forme.Chorus of RomaineSouldiors.Shall euer ciuilehategnaw and deuour our state?Shall neuer we this blade,Our bloud hath bloudie made,Lay downe? these armes downe layAs robes we weare alway?But as from age to age,So passe from rage to rage?Our hands shall we not restTo bath in our owne brest?And shall thick in each landOur wretched trophees stand,To tell posteritie,What madd ImpietieOur stonie stomakes leddAgainst the place vs bredd?Then still must heauen viewThe plagues that vs pursue:And euery where descrieHeaps of vs scattred lie,Making the straunger plainesFatt with our bleeding raines,Proud that on them their graueSo manie legions haue.And with our fleshes stillNeptunehis fishes fillAnd dronke with bloud from blueThe sea take blushing hue:As iuice ofTyrianshell,When clarified wellTo wolle of finest fieldsA purple glosse it yelds.But since the rule ofRome,To one mans hand is come,Who gouernes without mateHir now vnited state,Late iointlie rulde by threeEnuieng mutuallie,Whose triple yoke much woeOnLatinesnecks did throwe:I hope the cause of iarre,And of this bloudie warre,And deadlie discord goneBy what we last haue done:Our banks shall cherish nowThe branchie pale-hew’d bowOfOliue,Pallaspraise,In stede of barraine bayes.And that his temple dore,Which bloudieMarsbeforeHeld open, now at lastOldeIanusshall make fast:And rust the sword consume,And spoild of wauing plume,The vseles morion shallOn crooke hang by the wall.At least if warre returneIt shall not here soiourne,To kill vs with those armesWere forg’d for others harmes:But haue their pointes addrest,Against theGermainesbrest,TheParthiansfaynedflight,TheBiscainesmartiall might.Olde Memorie doth therePainted on forhead weareOur Fathers praise: thence torneOur triumphes baies haue worne:Therby our matchlesRomeWhilome of Shepeheards comeRais’d to this greatnes stands,The Queene of forraine lands.Which now euen seemes to faceThe heau’ns, her glories place:Nought resting vnder SkiesThat dares affront her eies.So that she needes but feareThe weaponsIouedoth beare,Who angrie at one bloweMay her quite ouerthrowe.Act. 5.Cleopatra. Euphron. Children of Cleopatra.Charmion. Eras.Cleop.O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!O plaguy loue! ô most detested brand!O wretched ioyes! ô beauties miserable!O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!OAntonieby my fault buriable!O hellish worke of heau’n! alas! the wrathOf all the Gods at once on vs is falne.Vnhappie Queene! ô would I in this worldThe wandring light of day had neuer sene?Alas! of mine the plague and poison IThe crowne haue lost my ancestors me left,This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made,And robd my children of their heritage.Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the priceOf you deare husband, whome my snares entrap’d:Of you, whom I haue plagu’d, whom I haue madeWith bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord,Whome I of Empire, honor, life haue spoil’d.O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue,Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe?Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy,Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!OStyx! ôPhlegethon! you brookes of hell!O Impes ofNight!Euph.Liue for your childrens sake:Let not your death of kingdome them depriue.Alas what shall they do? who will haue care?Who will preserue this royall race of yours?Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I seeThese little soules to seruile bondage falne,And borne in triumph.Cl.Ah most miserable!Euph.Their tender armes with cursed corde fast boundAt their weake backs.Cl.Ah Gods what pittie more!Eph.Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.Cl.Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.Euph.And pointed at with fingers as they go.Cl.Rather a thousand deaths.Euph.Lastly his knifeSome cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.Cl.Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,By my soule, and the soule ofAntonieI you beseche,Euphron, of them haue care.Be their good Father, let your wisedome lettThat they fall not into this Tyrants handes.Rather conduct them where their freezed locksBlackÆthiopesto neighbour Sunne do shewe;On wauieOceanat the waters will;On barraine cliffes of snowieCaucasus;To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;And rather, rather vnto euery coaste,To eu’rie land and sea: for nought I feareAs rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench.Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:GoodIsisyou to place of safetie guide,Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leadeIn free estate deuoid of seruile dread.Remember not, my children, you were borneOf such a Princelie race: remember notSo manie braue Kings which haueEgiptrul’deIn right descent your ancestors haue bene:That this greatAntonieyour Father was,Herculesbloud, and more then he in praise.For your high courage such remembrance will,Seing your fall with burning rages fill.Who knowes if that your hands falseDestinieThe Scepters promis’d of imperiouseRome,In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare,Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough?Ah learne t’ endure: your birth and high estateForget, my babes, and bend to force of fate.Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos’deWith pitie and paine, my self with death enclos’de,My breath doth faile. Farwell for euermore,Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more.Farwell swete care, farwell.Chil.Madame Adieu.Cl.Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde.I can no more, I die.Eras.Madame, alas!And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to vs.Eup.Come children.Chil.We come.Eup.Follow we our chaunce.The Gods shall guide vs.Char.O too cruell lott!O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,What shall we do, alas! if murthring darteOf death arriue while that in slumbring swoundHalf dead she lie with anguish ouergone?Er.Her face is frozen.Ch.Madame for Gods loueLeaue vs not thus: bidd vs yet first farwell.Alas! wepe ouerAntonie: Let notHis bodie be without due rites entomb’de.Cl.Ah, ah.Char.Madame.Cle.Ay me!Cl.How fainte she is?Cl.My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I,How cursed am! and was ther euer oneBy Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?Ah, weepingNiobe, although thy hartBeholdes itselfe enwrap’d in causefull woeFor thy dead children, that a senceless rockeWith griefe become, onSipylusthou stand’stIn endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feeleThe weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost,And lost their Father, more then them I waile,Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wratheInto a Stone not yet transformed hath.Phaetonssisters, daughters of the Sunne,Which waile your brother falne into the streamesOf statelyPo: the Gods vpon the bankesYour bodies to banke-louing Alders turn’d.For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe,Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.DieCleopatrathen, no longer stayFromAntonie, who thee atStyxattends:Goe ioine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no moreWithout his loue within these tombes enclos’d.Eras.Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine deathFrom him our teares, and those last duties takeVnto his tombe we owe.Ch.Ah let vs wepeWhile moisture lasts, then die before his feete.Cl.who furnish will mine eies with streaming tearesMy boiling anguish worthilie to waile,Waile theeAntonie,Antoniemy heart?Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drieBy long beweeping my disastred harmes.Now reason is that from my side they suckeFirst vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.Moist it, and heate it newe, and neuer stopp,All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.Cha.Antonietake our teares: this is the lastOf all the duties we to thee can yelde,Before we die.Er.These sacred obsequiesTakeAntony, and take them in good parte.Cl.O Goddesse thou whomCyprusdoth adore,VenusofPaphos, bent to worke vs harmeFor oldeIulusbroode, if thou take careOfCæsar, why of vs tak’st thou no care?Antoniedid descend, as well as he,From thine own Sonne by long enchained line:And might haue rul’d by one and self same fate,TrueTroianbloud, the statelieRomainstate.Antonie, pooreAntonie, my deare soule,Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,Which yet for tents to warlikeMarsdid serue,Lock’d vp in lidds (as faire daies cherefull lightWhich darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.Antonieby our true loues I thee beseche,And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire,Our holy mariage, and the tender rutheOf our deare babes, knot of our amitie:My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,Thy wife, thy frend: heareAntonie, ô heareMy sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there.Liued thus long, the winged race of yearesEnded I haue asDestiniedecreed,Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken iust reuengeOf him who me both hated and despisde.Happie, alas too happie! if ofRomeOnly the fleete had hither neuer come.And now of me an Image great shall goeVnder the earth to bury there my woe.What say I? where am I? ôCleopatra,PooreCleopatra, griefe thy reason reaues.No, no, most happie in this happles case,To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:My bodie ioynde with thine, my mouth with thine,My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes haue dried:To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest,And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest.The sharpest torment in my heart I feeleIs that I staie from thee, my heart, this while.Die will I straight now, now streight will I die,And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,Vnder theCyprestrees thou haunt’st alone,Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone.But yet I stay, and yet thee ouerliue,That ere I die due rites I may thee giue.A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne:My haire shall serue for thy oblations,My boiling teares for thy effusions,Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame(Which burnt thy heart on me enamour’d) came.Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eiesRaine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.Mine can no more, consumed by the coalesWhich from my breast, as from a furnace, rise.Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,With violent hands teare of your hanging haire,Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke(Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe?I spent in teares, not able more to spende,But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?Then lett me kisse you, you faire eies, my light,Front seate of honor, face most fierce, most faire!O neck, ô armes, ô hands, ô breast where death(Oh mischief) comes to choake vp vitall breath.A thousand kisses, thousand thousand moreLet you my mouth for honors farewell giue:Thatin this office weake my limmes may growe,Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flowe.At Ramsburie. 26. of Nouember.1590.
Alas hast thou this sword so long time borne
Against thy foe, that in the ende it should
Of thee his Lord the cursed murthr’er be?
O Deathhow I bewaile thee! we (alas!)
So many warres haue ended, brothers, frends,
Companions, coozens, equalls in estate:
And must it now to kill thee be my fate?
Ag.Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?
ForAntoniewhy spend you teares in vaine?
Why darken you with dole your victorie?
Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie.
Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods.
Cæs.I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,
Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,
And vnchaste loue of thisÆgyptian.
Lest shee consume in this amazed case
So much rich treasure, with which happelie
Despaire in death may make hir feed the fire:
Suffring the flames hir Iewells to deface,
You to defraud, hir funerall to grace.
Sende then to hir, and let some meane be vs’d
With some deuise so holde hir still aliue,
Some faire large promises: and let them marke
Whither they may by some fine conning slight
Enter the tombes.Cæsar.LetProculeiusgoe,
And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate.
Assure hir so, that we may wholie gett
Into our hands hir treasure and hir selfe.
For this of all things most I doe desire
To kepe hir safe vntill our going hence:
That by hir presence beautified may be
The glorious triumphRomeprepares forme.
Shall euer ciuilehategnaw and deuour our state?Shall neuer we this blade,Our bloud hath bloudie made,Lay downe? these armes downe layAs robes we weare alway?But as from age to age,So passe from rage to rage?Our hands shall we not restTo bath in our owne brest?And shall thick in each landOur wretched trophees stand,To tell posteritie,What madd ImpietieOur stonie stomakes leddAgainst the place vs bredd?Then still must heauen viewThe plagues that vs pursue:And euery where descrieHeaps of vs scattred lie,Making the straunger plainesFatt with our bleeding raines,Proud that on them their graueSo manie legions haue.And with our fleshes stillNeptunehis fishes fillAnd dronke with bloud from blueThe sea take blushing hue:As iuice ofTyrianshell,When clarified wellTo wolle of finest fieldsA purple glosse it yelds.But since the rule ofRome,To one mans hand is come,Who gouernes without mateHir now vnited state,Late iointlie rulde by threeEnuieng mutuallie,Whose triple yoke much woeOnLatinesnecks did throwe:I hope the cause of iarre,And of this bloudie warre,And deadlie discord goneBy what we last haue done:Our banks shall cherish nowThe branchie pale-hew’d bowOfOliue,Pallaspraise,In stede of barraine bayes.And that his temple dore,Which bloudieMarsbeforeHeld open, now at lastOldeIanusshall make fast:And rust the sword consume,And spoild of wauing plume,The vseles morion shallOn crooke hang by the wall.At least if warre returneIt shall not here soiourne,To kill vs with those armesWere forg’d for others harmes:But haue their pointes addrest,Against theGermainesbrest,TheParthiansfaynedflight,TheBiscainesmartiall might.Olde Memorie doth therePainted on forhead weareOur Fathers praise: thence torneOur triumphes baies haue worne:Therby our matchlesRomeWhilome of Shepeheards comeRais’d to this greatnes stands,The Queene of forraine lands.Which now euen seemes to faceThe heau’ns, her glories place:Nought resting vnder SkiesThat dares affront her eies.So that she needes but feareThe weaponsIouedoth beare,Who angrie at one bloweMay her quite ouerthrowe.
Shall euer ciuilehate
gnaw and deuour our state?
Shall neuer we this blade,
Our bloud hath bloudie made,
Lay downe? these armes downe lay
As robes we weare alway?
But as from age to age,
So passe from rage to rage?
Our hands shall we not rest
To bath in our owne brest?
And shall thick in each land
Our wretched trophees stand,
To tell posteritie,
What madd Impietie
Our stonie stomakes ledd
Against the place vs bredd?
Then still must heauen view
The plagues that vs pursue:
And euery where descrie
Heaps of vs scattred lie,
Making the straunger plaines
Fatt with our bleeding raines,
Proud that on them their graue
So manie legions haue.
And with our fleshes still
Neptunehis fishes fill
And dronke with bloud from blue
The sea take blushing hue:
As iuice ofTyrianshell,
When clarified well
To wolle of finest fields
A purple glosse it yelds.
But since the rule ofRome,
To one mans hand is come,
Who gouernes without mate
Hir now vnited state,
Late iointlie rulde by three
Enuieng mutuallie,
Whose triple yoke much woe
OnLatinesnecks did throwe:
I hope the cause of iarre,
And of this bloudie warre,
And deadlie discord gone
By what we last haue done:
Our banks shall cherish now
The branchie pale-hew’d bow
OfOliue,Pallaspraise,
In stede of barraine bayes.
And that his temple dore,
Which bloudieMarsbefore
Held open, now at last
OldeIanusshall make fast:
And rust the sword consume,
And spoild of wauing plume,
The vseles morion shall
On crooke hang by the wall.
At least if warre returne
It shall not here soiourne,
To kill vs with those armes
Were forg’d for others harmes:
But haue their pointes addrest,
Against theGermainesbrest,
TheParthiansfaynedflight,
TheBiscainesmartiall might.
Olde Memorie doth there
Painted on forhead weare
Our Fathers praise: thence torne
Our triumphes baies haue worne:
Therby our matchlesRome
Whilome of Shepeheards come
Rais’d to this greatnes stands,
The Queene of forraine lands.
Which now euen seemes to face
The heau’ns, her glories place:
Nought resting vnder Skies
That dares affront her eies.
So that she needes but feare
The weaponsIouedoth beare,
Who angrie at one blowe
May her quite ouerthrowe.
O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!
O plaguy loue! ô most detested brand!
O wretched ioyes! ô beauties miserable!
O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!
O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!
OAntonieby my fault buriable!
O hellish worke of heau’n! alas! the wrath
Of all the Gods at once on vs is falne.
Vnhappie Queene! ô would I in this world
The wandring light of day had neuer sene?
Alas! of mine the plague and poison I
The crowne haue lost my ancestors me left,
This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made,
And robd my children of their heritage.
Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the price
Of you deare husband, whome my snares entrap’d:
Of you, whom I haue plagu’d, whom I haue made
With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:
Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord,
Whome I of Empire, honor, life haue spoil’d.
O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue,
Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe?
Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy,
Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?
O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!
OStyx! ôPhlegethon! you brookes of hell!
O Impes ofNight!Euph.Liue for your childrens sake:
Let not your death of kingdome them depriue.
Alas what shall they do? who will haue care?
Who will preserue this royall race of yours?
Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I see
These little soules to seruile bondage falne,
And borne in triumph.Cl.Ah most miserable!
Euph.Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound
At their weake backs.Cl.Ah Gods what pittie more!
Eph.Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.
Cl.Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.
Euph.And pointed at with fingers as they go.
Cl.Rather a thousand deaths.Euph.Lastly his knife
Some cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.
Cl.Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,
By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,
By my soule, and the soule ofAntonie
I you beseche,Euphron, of them haue care.
Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett
That they fall not into this Tyrants handes.
Rather conduct them where their freezed locks
BlackÆthiopesto neighbour Sunne do shewe;
On wauieOceanat the waters will;
On barraine cliffes of snowieCaucasus;
To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;
And rather, rather vnto euery coaste,
To eu’rie land and sea: for nought I feare
As rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench.
Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:
GoodIsisyou to place of safetie guide,
Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leade
In free estate deuoid of seruile dread.
Remember not, my children, you were borne
Of such a Princelie race: remember not
So manie braue Kings which haueEgiptrul’de
In right descent your ancestors haue bene:
That this greatAntonieyour Father was,
Herculesbloud, and more then he in praise.
For your high courage such remembrance will,
Seing your fall with burning rages fill.
Who knowes if that your hands falseDestinie
The Scepters promis’d of imperiouseRome,
In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare,
Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough?
Ah learne t’ endure: your birth and high estate
Forget, my babes, and bend to force of fate.
Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos’de
With pitie and paine, my self with death enclos’de,
My breath doth faile. Farwell for euermore,
Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more.
Farwell swete care, farwell.Chil.Madame Adieu.
Cl.Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde.
I can no more, I die.Eras.Madame, alas!
And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to vs.
Eup.Come children.Chil.We come.Eup.Follow we our chaunce.
The Gods shall guide vs.Char.O too cruell lott!
O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,
What shall we do, alas! if murthring darte
Of death arriue while that in slumbring swound
Half dead she lie with anguish ouergone?
Er.Her face is frozen.Ch.Madame for Gods loue
Leaue vs not thus: bidd vs yet first farwell.
Alas! wepe ouerAntonie: Let not
His bodie be without due rites entomb’de.
Cl.Ah, ah.Char.Madame.Cle.Ay me!Cl.How fainte she is?
Cl.My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I,
How cursed am! and was ther euer one
By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?
Ah, weepingNiobe, although thy hart
Beholdes itselfe enwrap’d in causefull woe
For thy dead children, that a senceless rocke
With griefe become, onSipylusthou stand’st
In endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feele
The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.
Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost,
And lost their Father, more then them I waile,
Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wrathe
Into a Stone not yet transformed hath.
Phaetonssisters, daughters of the Sunne,
Which waile your brother falne into the streames
Of statelyPo: the Gods vpon the bankes
Your bodies to banke-louing Alders turn’d.
For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,
And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe,
Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende
(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.
DieCleopatrathen, no longer stay
FromAntonie, who thee atStyxattends:
Goe ioine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no more
Without his loue within these tombes enclos’d.
Eras.Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine death
From him our teares, and those last duties take
Vnto his tombe we owe.Ch.Ah let vs wepe
While moisture lasts, then die before his feete.
Cl.who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares
My boiling anguish worthilie to waile,
Waile theeAntonie,Antoniemy heart?
Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!
Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drie
By long beweeping my disastred harmes.
Now reason is that from my side they sucke
First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.
Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,
And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.
Moist it, and heate it newe, and neuer stopp,
All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.
Cha.Antonietake our teares: this is the last
Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,
Before we die.Er.These sacred obsequies
TakeAntony, and take them in good parte.
Cl.O Goddesse thou whomCyprusdoth adore,
VenusofPaphos, bent to worke vs harme
For oldeIulusbroode, if thou take care
OfCæsar, why of vs tak’st thou no care?
Antoniedid descend, as well as he,
From thine own Sonne by long enchained line:
And might haue rul’d by one and self same fate,
TrueTroianbloud, the statelieRomainstate.
Antonie, pooreAntonie, my deare soule,
Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,
Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,
And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.
Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,
Which yet for tents to warlikeMarsdid serue,
Lock’d vp in lidds (as faire daies cherefull light
Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.
Antonieby our true loues I thee beseche,
And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire,
Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe
Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie:
My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,
And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,
Thy wife, thy frend: heareAntonie, ô heare
My sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there.
Liued thus long, the winged race of yeares
Ended I haue asDestiniedecreed,
Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken iust reuenge
Of him who me both hated and despisde.
Happie, alas too happie! if ofRome
Only the fleete had hither neuer come.
And now of me an Image great shall goe
Vnder the earth to bury there my woe.
What say I? where am I? ôCleopatra,
PooreCleopatra, griefe thy reason reaues.
No, no, most happie in this happles case,
To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:
My bodie ioynde with thine, my mouth with thine,
My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes haue dried:
To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest,
And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest.
The sharpest torment in my heart I feele
Is that I staie from thee, my heart, this while.
Die will I straight now, now streight will I die,
And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,
Vnder theCyprestrees thou haunt’st alone,
Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone.
But yet I stay, and yet thee ouerliue,
That ere I die due rites I may thee giue.
A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,
With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne:
My haire shall serue for thy oblations,
My boiling teares for thy effusions,
Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame
(Which burnt thy heart on me enamour’d) came.
Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eies
Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.
Mine can no more, consumed by the coales
Which from my breast, as from a furnace, rise.
Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,
With violent hands teare of your hanging haire,
Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke
(Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe?
I spent in teares, not able more to spende,
But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?
Then lett me kisse you, you faire eies, my light,
Front seate of honor, face most fierce, most faire!
O neck, ô armes, ô hands, ô breast where death
(Oh mischief) comes to choake vp vitall breath.
A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more
Let you my mouth for honors farewell giue:
Thatin this office weake my limmes may growe,
Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flowe.