[Exit.

Vent. Would she had died a little sooner though,

Before Octavia went; you might have treated: Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together.

Ant. I will not fight; there's no more work for war;

The business of my angry hours is done.
Vent. Cæsar is at your gates.
Ant. Why let him enter:
He's welcome now.

Vent. What lethargy has crept into your soul? Ant. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire To free myself from bondage.

Vent. Do it bravely.

Ant. I will, but not by fighting. Oh, Ventidius,

What should I fight for now? my queen is dead:
I was but great for her: my power, my empire,
Were but my merchandise to buy her love,
And conquered kings my factors. Now she's
dead,

Let Cæsar take the world--

An empty circle, since the jewel's gone,

Which made it worth my strife: my being's

nauseous,

For all the bribes of life are gone away.

Vent. Would you be taken?

Ant. Yes, I would be taken;

But as a Roman ought; dead, my Ventidius-
For I'll convey my soul from Cæsar's reach,
And lay down life myself.. 'Tis time the world
Should have a lord, and know whom to obey.
We two have kept its homage in suspense,
And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod,
Till it was dinted inwards. Let him walk
Alone upon it: I'm weary of my part.
My torch is out, and the world stands before me,
Like a black desert at the approach of night:
I'll lay me down and stray no farther on.
Vent. I could be grieved,

But that I'll not outlive you. Chuse your death,
For I have seen him in such various shapes,
I care not which I take: I'm only troubled
The life I bear is worn to such a rag,
'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish indeed
We threw it from us with a better grace,
That, like two lions taken in the toils,

We might at least thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters, that enclose us.

Ant. I have thought on it;

Ventidius, you must live.
Vent. I must not, sir.

Ant. Wilt thou not live to speak some good of me?

To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches

From the ill tongues of men?
Vent. Who shall guard mine,
For living after you?

Ant. Say, I commanded it.

Vent. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves,

And need no living witness.

Ant. Thou hast loved me,

And fain I would reward thee. I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death,
To make thee friends with Cæsar.

Vent. Thank your kindness!

You said I loyed you, and in recompense
You bid me turn a traitor! Did I think
You would have used me thus! that I should
die

With a hard thought of you!

Ant. Forgive me, Roman.

Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death,
My reason bears no rule upon my tongue,
But lets my thoughts break all at random out.
I have thought better; do not deny me twice.
Vent. By heaven I will not!

Let it not be to outlive you.

Ant. Kill me first,

But think, 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you, If that may plead my pardon. And you, gods! Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend.

[Dies.

Ant. Farewell! ever my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honour.-Gone so soon! Is death no more! He used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness; ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say, you're welcome at all hours, A friend need give no warning.--Books had spoiled him,

For all the learned are cowards by profession. 'Tis not worth

My further thought; for death, for aught I know, Is but to think no more, Here's to be satisfied.

[Falls on his sword.

Or am I dead before I knew, and thou

The first kind ghost that meets me?

Cleo. Help me seat him!

Send quickly, send for help!

[They place him in a chair.

Ant. I am answered:
We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra !
I'll make the most I can of life, to stay
A moment more with thee.

Cleo. How is it with you?
Ant. 'Tis, as with a man
Removing in a hurry; all packed up
But one dear jewel, that his haste forgot,
And he for that returns upon the spur;
So I come back for thee.

Cleo. Too long, ye heavens! you have been
cruel to me!

Now shew your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life!

Ant. It will not be, my love!

I keep my soul by force.

Say but thou art not false!

Cleo. 'Tis now too late

| And now to die each other's! and so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours.

Cleo. Your words are like the notes of dying

swans,

Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours
For your unkindness, and not one for love!
Ant. No, not a minute-this one kiss-more
worth
Than all I leave to Cæsar.-

Cleo. Oh, tell me so again,

[Dies.

And take ten thousand kisses for that word!-
My lord! my lord! speak, if you yet have being!
Sign to me if you cannot speak! or cast
One look! do any thing, that shows you live!
Iras. He is gone too far to hear you,
And this, you see, a lump of senseless clay,
The leavings of a soul.

Char. Remember, madam,
He charged you not to grieve.
Cleo. And I'll obey him.

I have not loved a Roman not to know
What should become his wife-his wife, my
Charmion!

For 'tis to that high title I aspire;

And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia
Survive, to mourn him dead: my nobler fate
Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong
For Roman laws to break.

Iras. Will you then die!

Cleo. Why shouldst thou make that question?
Iras. Cæsar is most merciful.—

Cleo. Let him be so

To those, that want his mercy: My poor lord
Made no such covenant with him to spare me,
When he was dead. Yield me to Cæsar's pride!
What? to be led in triumph through the streets,
A spectacle to base plebeian eyes,

While some dejected friend of Antony's,
Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters
A secret curse on her, who ruined him!
I'll none of that.

Char. Whatever you resolve,

I'll follow, even to death.

Iras. I only feared

For you, but more should fear to live without

you.

Cleo. Why, now 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends,

Dispatch! ere this the town's in Cæsar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,

Lest I should be surprised:

Keep him not waiting for his love too long.
You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest
jewels;

With them the wreath of victory I made
(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead:
You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.
Iras. The aspicks, madam?
Cleo. Must I bid you twice?

[Exit CHAR. and IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life

on me,

To rush into the dark abode of death,
And seize him first! If he be like my love,
He is not frightful sure!

We are now alone, in secrecy and silence,
And is not this like lovers? I may kiss
These pale cold lips-Octavia does not see me;
And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus,
Than see him in her arms!-O welcome, wel-
come!

Enter CHARMION and IRAS, with the aspicks, &c.
Char. What must be done?

Cleo. Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him. Only thou Couldst triumph o'er thyself, and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph...

Of my immortal love!

Oh, let no impious hand remove you hence,
But rest for ever here! let Egypt give

His death that peace, which it denied his life!
Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit the aspick lies. Cleo. Welcome, thou kind deceiver! [Putting aside the leaves. Thou best of thieves! who with an easy key Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves, discharging so Death's dreadful office better than himself, Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but sleep.

[Within.

Ser. The queen, where is she? The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates. Cleo. He comes too late to invade the rights

of death.

Haste, haste, my friend, and rouse the serpent's fury.

[Holds out her arm, and draws it back.

Coward flesh

Wouldst thou conspire with Cæsar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him,

But bring myself, my soul, to Antony.

[Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody. Take hence: the work is done!

Scr. Break ope the door,

And guard the traitor well.
Char. The next is ours.

Iras. Now, Charmion, to be worthy
Of our great queen and mistress.

[Within.

[They apply the aspicks.
Cleo. Already, Death, I feel thee in my veins;
I go with such a will to find my lord,
That we shall quickly meet.

A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,
And now 'tis at my head: my eyelids fall,
And my dear love is vanished in a mist!
Where shall I find him, where? oh! turn me to
him,

And lay me on his breast!-Cæsar, thy worst!
Now part us if thou canst.
[Dies.
[IRAS sinks down at her feet and dies ; CHAR-
MION stands behind her chair, as dressing

her head.

Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, and Egyptians.

2 Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havoc death has made!

Ser. 'Twas what I feared. Charmion, is this well done?

Char. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last

Of her great race. I follow her. [Sinks down. Dies.
Alex. 'Tis true,

She has done well: much better thus to die,
Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

Ser. See how the lovers sit in state together,
As they were giving laws to half mankind!
The impression of a smile, left in her face,
Shows she died pleased with him, for whom she
lived,

And went to charm him in another world.
Cæsar's just entering; grief has now no leisure.
Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,
To grace the imperial triumph. Sleep, blest
pair!

Secure from human chance, long ages out,
While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb:
And fame to late posterity shall tell,
No lovers lived so great, or died so well.

[Exeunt,

POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left; and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
Betwixt our fools in verse, and your's in prose:
For, faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
"Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat,
And swears at the gilt coach; but swears a-foot;
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink or purple best becomes his face-
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Or likes your wit just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex, he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar's pow'r the men's ambition move,
But grace you him who lost the world for love.
Yet, if some antiquated lady say,

The last age is not copied in his play;
Heav'n help the man who for that face must
drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.

Let not the young and beauteous join with those;
For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,
Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;
"Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

BY

THE judge remov'd, though he's no more my lord,
May plead at bar, or at the council-board:"
So may cast poets write; there's no pretension,
To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
I see not one, that wears a damning face.
The British nation is too brave to show
Ignoble vengeance, on a vanquished foe;
At least be civil to the wretch imploring,
And lay your paws upon him, without roaring;
Suppose our poet was your foe before,
Yet now the bus'ness of the field is o'er;
'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
When troops are into winter-quarters gone.
Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
And you well know, a play's of no religion.
Take good advice, and please yourselves this day;
No matter from what hands you have the play.
Among good fellows ev'ry health will pass,
That serves to carry round another glass:
When, with full bowls of burgundy you dine,
Though at the mighty monarch you repine,
You grant him still Most Christian, in his wine.

Thus far the poet,-but his brains grow addle;
And all the rest is purely from this noddle.
You've seen young ladies at the senate door,
Prefer petitions, and your grace implore;
However grave the legislators were,
Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair;
Reasons as weak as theirs perhaps I bring,
But I could bribe you with as good a thing.
I heard him make advances of good nature,
That he for once would sheath his cutting satire;
Sign but his peace, he vows he'll neʼer again
The sacred names of fops and beaux prophane.
Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear,
As times go now, he offers very fair.

Be not too hard on him with statutes neither;
Be kind; and do not set your teeth together,
To stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather.
Horses by papists are not to be ridden;
But sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden;
For in no rate-book, it was ever found
That Pegasus was valued at five pound:
Fine him to daily drudging and inditing;
And let him pay his taxes out,-in writing.

BRIGHT beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,
Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play,
Or is't the poet's execution day?
His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spite and spleen you were come hither,
For he has kept the pen, though lost the feather.
And on my honour, ladies, I avow,
This play was writ in charity to you,
For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?
Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation
For the abuse of so great dispensation;
And therefore I resolved to change vocation.