A1r A1v A2r

Tragedie of

Doone into English by the
Countesse of

An open book with the sun behind it and clouds above, surrounded by an ornamental border with the words “Et usque ad nubes veritas tua” running around the border.

Imprinted at London for William

A2v isolated words and lettersomitted
Crown over shield of arms; the shield is divided into four quarters, top left and bottom right each showing three unicorn heads and three stars, top right and bottom left showing three hollow rhombi each.

The Argument.

Square containing large initial capital A in front of two facing cherubs, reclining cross-legged, each holding a palm-leaf in his raised hand.After the overthrowe
of Brutus
and Cassius, the
libertie of Rome
being now utterly
oppressed, and the
Empire setled in
the hands of Octavius Cæsar and
Marcus Antonius, (who for knitting
a straiter bonde of amitie betweene
them, had taken to wife Octavia the
sister of sar) Antonius undertooke
a journey against the Parthians, with
intent to regaine on them the honor
won by them from the Romanes, at the
discomfiture and slaughter of Crassus.
But comming in his journey into Siria
the places renewed in his remembrāance A3 the A3v
the long intermitted love of Cleopatra
Queene of Aegipte: who before
time had both in Cilicia and at Alexandria,
entertained him with all the
exquisite delightes and sumptuous pleasures,
which a great Prince and voluptuous
lover could to the uttermost desire.
Whereupon omitting his enterprice,
he made his returne to Alexandria,
againe falling to his former loves,
without any regarde of his vertuous
wife Octavia, by whom nevertheles he
had excellent children. This occation
Octavius toke of taking armes against
him: & preparing a mighty fleet; encoūuntred
him at Actium, who also had assembled
to that place a great nūumber of Gallies
of his own, beside, 60, which Cleopatra
brought with her from Aegipt,
But at the very beginning of the battel
Cleopatra with all her Gallies betooke
her to flight, which Antony seeing
could not but follow: by his departure leaving to A4r
leaving to Octavius the greatest victory which in
any Sea battell hath beene hard off. Which
he not negligent to pursue, followes them
the next spring, and besiedgeth them with
in Alexandria, where Antony finding
al that he trusted to faile him, beginneth to
growe jealouse and to suspect Cleopatra.
She thereupon enclosed her selfe with two
of her women in a monumēent she had before
caused to be built, thence sends him worde
she was dead: which he beleeving for truth,
gave himselfe with his Sworde a deadly
woūund: but died not until a messenger came
frōom Cleopatra to have him brought to her
to the tombe. Which she not daring to open
least she should bee made a prisoner to the
Romaines, & carried in sars triumph,
cast downe a cord from an high window, by
the which (her womēen helping her) she trussed
up Antonius halfe dead, & so got him
into the monumēent. The stage supposed alexandria:
the chorus first Egiptians, & after
Romane souldiors: The history to be read at
large in Plutarch in the life of Antonius.


The Actors.



Eras and

Cleopatras womēen

Philostratus a Philosopher.


Diomede Secretarie to Cleopatra.

Octavius Cæsar.


Euphron, teacher of Cleopatras

Children of Cleopatra,

Dircetus the Messenger.



Square containing large initial capital S in front of two cherubs, one reclining and reading a book which he holds open on his knees, the other looking at the book and holding it in his right hand, his left pointing upward in the opposite direction.
Since cruell Heav’ns
against me obstinate,

Since all mishappes
of the round engin doo

Conspire my harme:
since mēen, since powers divine

Aire, earth, and Sea
are all injurious:

And that my Queene her selfe, in whome I liv’d,

The Idoll of my harte, doth me pursue;

It’s meete I dye. For her have I forgone

My Country, sar unto warre provok’d

(For just revenge of Sisters wrong my wife,

Who mov’de my Queene (ay me!) to jealousie)

For love of her, in her allurements caught

Abandon’d life, I honor have despisde,

Disdain’d my freends, and of the statelye Rome

Despoilde the Empire of her best attire,

Contemn’d that power that made me so much fear’d,

A A5v

A slave become unto her feeble face.

O cruell, traitres, woman most unkinde,

Thou dost, forsworne, my love and life betraie:

And givst me up to ragefull enemie,

Which soone (ô foole!) will plague thy perjurye.

Yeelded Pelusium on this countries shore,

Yeelded thou hast my Shippes and men of warre,

That nought remaines (so destitute am I)

But these same armes which on my back I weare.

Thou should’st have had them too, and me unarm’de

Yeelded to sar naked of defence.

Which while I beare let sar never thinke

Triumph of me shall his proud chariot grace

Not thinke with me his glory to adorne,

On me alive to use his victorie.

Thou only Cleopatra triumph hast,

Thou only hast my fredome servile made,

Thou only hast me vanquisht: not by force

(For forste I cannot be) but by sweete baites

Of thy eyes graces, which did gaine so fast

upon A6r

upon my libertie, that nought remain’d.

None els henceforth, but thou my dearest Queene,

Shall glorie in commaunding Antonie.

Have sar fortune and the Gods his freends,

To him have Jove and fatall sisters given

The Scepter of the earth: he never shall

Subject my life to his obedience.

But when that death, my glad refuge, shall have

Bounded the course of my unstedfast life,

And frosen corps under a marble colde

Within tombes bosome widdowe of my soule: ]

Then at his will let him it subject make:

Then what he will let sar doo with me:

Make me limme after limme be rent: make me

My buriall take in sides of Thracian wolfe.

Poore Antonie! alas what was the day,

The daies of losse that gained thee thy love!

Wretch Antonie! since Mægæra pale

With Snakie haires enchain’d thy miserie.

The fire thee burnt was never Cupids fire

For A6v

(For Cupid beares not such a mortall brand)

It was some furies torch, Orestes torche,

Which somtimes burnt his mother-murdering soule

(When wandring madde, rage boiling in his bloud,

He fled his fault which folow’d as he fled)

kindled within his bones by shadow pale

Of mother slaine return’d from Stygian lake.

Antony, poore Antony! since that daie

Thy olde good hap did farre from thee retire.

Thy vertue dead: thy glory made alive

So ofte by martiall deeds is gone in smoke:

Since then the Baies so well thy forehead knewe

To Venus mirtles yeelded have their place:

Trumpets to pipes: field tents to courtly bowers:

Launces and Pikes to daunces and to feastes.

Since then, ô wretch! in stead of bloudy warres

Thou shouldst have made upon the Parthian Kings

For Romain honor filde by Crassus foile,

Thou threw’st thy Curiace off, and fearfull healme,

With coward courage unto Aegipts Queene

In A7r

In haste to runne, about her necke to hang

Languishing in her armes thy Idoll made:

In summe given up to Cleopatras eies.

Thou breakest at length frōom thence, as one encharm’d

Breakes from th’enchaunter that him strongly helde.

For thy first reason (spoyling of their force

the poisned cuppes of thy faire Sorceres)

Recur’d thy sperit: and then on every side

Thou mad’st again the earth with Souldiours swarme

All Asia hidde: Euphrates bankes do tremble

To see at once so many Romanes there

Breath horror, rage, and with a threatning eye

In mighty squadrons crosse his swelling streames.

Nought seene but horse, and fier sparkling armes:

Nought heard but hideous noise of muttring troups.

The Parth, the Mede, abandoning their goods

Hide them for feare in hilles of Hircanie,

Redoubting thee. Then willing to besiege

The great Phraate head of Media,

Thou campedst at her walles with vaine assault,

Thy A7v

Thy engins sit (mishap!) not thither brought,

So long thou stai’st, so long thou dost thee rest,

So long thy love with such things nourished

Reframes, reformes it selfe and stealingly

Retakes his force and rebecomes more great.

For of thy Queene the lookes, the grace, the words,

Sweetnes, alurements, amorous delights,

Entred againe thy soule, and day and night,

In watch, in sleepe, her Image follow’d thee:

Not dreaming but of her, repenting still

That thou for warre hadst such a goddes left.

Thou car’st no more for Parth, nor Parthian bow,

Sallies, assaults, encounters, shocks, alarmes,

For ditches, rampiers, wards, entrenched grounds:

Thy only care is sight of Nilus streames,

Sight of that face whose gilefull semblant doth

(Wandring in thee) infect thy tainted hart.

Her absence thee besottes: each hower, each hower

Of staie, to thee impatient seemes an age.

Enough of conquest, praise thou deem’st enough,

If A8r

If soone enough the bristled fields thou see

Of fruitfull Aegipt, and the stranger floud

Thy Queenes faire eyes (another Pharos) lights.

Returned loe, dishonoured, despisde,

In wanton love a woman thee misleades

Sunke in soule sinke: meane while respecting nought

Thy wife Octavia and her tender babes,

Of whome the long contempt against thee whets

The sword of sar now thy Lord become.

Lost thy great Empire, all those goodly townes

Reverenc’d thy name as rebells now thee leave:

Rise against thee, and to the ensignes flocke

Of conqu’ring sar, who enwalles thee round

Cag’d in thy hold, scarse maister of thy selfe,

Late maister of so many Nations.

Yet, yet, which is of griefe exrreamest griefe,

Which is yet of mischiefe highest mischiefe,

It’s Cleopatra alas! alas, it’s she,

It’s she augments the torment of thy paine,

Betraies thy love, thy life alas!) betraies,

sar A8v

sar to please, whose grace she seekes to gaine:

With thought her crowne to save and fortune make

Onely thy foe which common ought have beene.

If her I alwaies lov’d, and the first flame

Of her heart-killing love shall burne me last:

Justly complaine I she disloyall is,

Nor constant is, even as I constant am,

To comfort my mishap, despising me

No more, then when the heavens favour’d me.

But ah! by nature women wav’ring are,

Each moment changing and rechanging mindes.

Unwise, who blinde in them, thinkes loyaltie

Ever to finde in beauties companie.


The boyling tempest still

makes not Sea waters fome:

nor still the Northern blast

disquiets quiet streames:

nor χ1r

Nor who his chest to fill

sayles to the morning beames,

on waves winde tosseth fast

still kepes his ship from home.

Nor Jove still downe doth cast

inflam’d with bloudie ire

on man, on tree, on hill,

his darts of thundring fire.

nor still the heat doth last

on face of parched plaine.

nor wrinkled colde doth still

on frozen furrowes raigne.

But still as long as we

in this low world remaine,

mishapps our daily mates

our lives doe intertaine:

and woes which beare no dates

still pearch upon our heads,

none go but straight will be

some greater in their steads.

Nature χ1v

Nature made us not free

When first she made us live:

When we began to be,

To be began our woe:

Which growing evermore

As dying life doth growe,

Do more and more us greeve,

And tire us more and more.

No stay in fading states,

For more to height they retch,

Their fellow miseries.

The more to height do stretch.

They cling even to the crowne,

And threatning furious wise

From tirannizing pates

Do often pull it downe.

In vaine on waves untride

To shun them go we should

To Scythes and Massagetes

Who neere the Pole reside:

In B1r

In vaine to boiling sandes

Which Phœbus battry beates,

For with us still they would

Cut seas and compasse landes.

The darknes no more sure

To joyne with heavy night:

The light which guildes the days

To follow Titan pure:

No more the shadow light

The body to ensue:

Then wretchednes alwaies

Us wretches to pursue.

O blest who never breath’d,

Or whome with pittie mov’de,

Death from his cradle reav’de,

And swadled in his grave:

And blessed also he

(As curse may blessing have)

Who low and living free

No princes charge hath prov’de.

B By B1v

By stealing sacred fire.

Prometheus then unwise,

provoking Gods to ire,

the heape of ills did sturre,

and sicknes pale and colde

our ende which onward spurre,

to plague our hands too bolde

to filch the wealth of skies.

In heavens hate since then

of ill with ill enchain’d

we race of mortall men

ful fraught our brests have borne

and thousand thousand woes

our heav’nly soules now thorne,

which free before from those

no! earthly passion pain’d.

Warre and warrs bitter cheare

now long time with us staie,

and feare of hated foe

still still encreaseth sore:

our B2r

our harmes worse dayly grow,

lesse yesterday they were

then now, and will be more

to morrow then to day.

Act. 2,


What horrible furie, what cruell rage,

O Aegipt so extremely thee torments?

Hast thou the Gods so angred by thy fault?

Hast thou against them some such crime conceiv’d,

That their engrained hand lift up in threats

They should desire in thy heart bloud to bathe?

And that their burning wrath which noght cāan quēench

Should pittiles on us still lighten downe?

We are not hew’n out of the monst’rous masse

Of Giantes those, which heavens wrack conspir’d:

Ixions race, false prater of his loves:

B2 Nor B2v

Nor yet of him who fained lightnings sound:

Nor cruell Tantalus, nor bloudy Atreus,

Whose cursed banquet for Thyestes plague

Made the beholding Sunne for horrour turne

His backe, and backward from his course returne:

And hastning his wing-footed horses race

Plunge him in sea for shame to hide his face:

While sulleine night upon the wondring world

For mid-daies light her starrie mantle cast.

But what we be, what ever wickednesse

By us is done, Alas! with what more plagues,

More eager torments could the Gods declare

To heaven and earth that us they hatefull holde?

With souldiors, strangers, horrible in armes

Our land is hidde, our people drown’d in teares.

But terror here and horror, nought is seene:

And present death prising our life each hower.

Hard at our ports and at our porches waites

Our conquering foe: harts faile us, hopes are dead:

Our Queene laments: and this great Emperour

Sometime B3r

Somtime (would now they did) whom worlds did fear

Abandoned, betraid, now mindes no more

But from his evils by hast’ned death to passe.

Come you poore people ti’rde with ceasles plaints

With teares and sighes make moruurnfull sacrifice

On Isis altars: not our selves to save,

But soften sar and him piteous make

To us, his praie: that so his lenitie

May change our death into captivitie.

Strange are the evils the fates on us have brought,

O but alas! how far more strange the cause!

Love, love (alas, who ever would have thought?)

Hath lost this Realme inflamed with his fire.

Love, playing love, which men say kindles not

But in soft hearts, hath ashes made our townes.

And his sweet shafts, with whose shot none are kill’d,

Which ulcer not, with deaths our lands have fill’d,

Such was the bloudie, murdring, hellish love

Possest thy hart faire false guest Priams sonne,

Firing a brand which after made to burne

B3 The B3v

The Trojan towers by Græcians ruinate.

By this love, Priam, Hector, Troilus,

Memnon, Deiphœbus, Glancus, thousands mo.

Whome redd Scamanders armor clogged streames

Roll’d into Seas, before their dates are dead.

So plaguie he, so many tempests raiseth,

So murdring he, so many Citties raiseth,

When insolent, blinde, lawles, orderles,

With mad delights our sence he entertaines.

All knowing Gods our wracks did us fortell

By signes in earth, by signes in starry Sphæres,

Which should have mov’d us, had not destinie

With too strong hand warped our miserie.

The Comets flaming through the scat’red clouds

With fiery beames, most like unbroaded haires:

The fearfull dragon whistling at the bankes:

And holy Apis ceasles bellowing

(As never erst) and shedding endles teares:

Bloud raining down frōom heav’n in unknow’n showers:

Our Gods darke faces overcast with woe,

And B4r

And dead mens Ghosts appearing in the night.

Yea even this night while all the Cittie stood

Opprest with terror, horror, servile feare,

Deepe silence over all: the sounds were heard

Of divers songs, and diverse instruments,

Within the voide of aire: and howling noise,

Such as madde Bacchus priests in Bacchus feasts

On Nisa make: and (seem’d) the company,

Our Cittie lost, went to the enemie.

So we forsaken both of Gods and men,

So are we in the mercy of our foes:

And we henceforth obedient must become

To lawes of them who have us overcome.


Lament we our mishaps,

Drowne we with teares of woe:

For Lamentable happes

Lamented easie growe:

And B4v

and much lesse torment bring

then when they first did spring.

We want that wofull song,

wherwith wood-musiques Queen

doth ease her woes, among,

fresh springtimes bushes greene,

on pleasant branch alone

renewing auntient mone.

We want that monefull sound,

that pratling Progne makes

on fields of Thracian ground,

or streames of Thracian lakes:

to empt her brest of paine

for Itys by her slaine.

Though Halcyons do still,

bewailing Ceyx lot,

the Seas with plainings fill

which his dead limmes have got,

not ever other grave

then tombe of waves to have:

And B5r

And though the bird in death

that most Meander loves:

so sweetly sighes his breath

when death his fury proves,

as almost softs his heart,

and almost blunts his dart:

Yet all the plaints of those,

nor all their tearfull larmes,

cannot content our woes,

nor serve to waile the harmes,

in soule which we, poore we.

to feele enforced be.

Nor they of Phœbus bredd

in teares can doo so well,

they for their brother shedd,

who into Padus fell,

rash guide of chariot cleere

surveiour of the yeare.

Nor she whom heav’nly powers

to weping rocke did turne,

Whose B5v

whose teares distill in showers,

and shew she yet doth mourne,

wherewith his toppe to Skies

mount Sipylus doth rise.

Nor weping drops which flowe

from barke of wounded tree,

that Mirrhas shame doth showe

with ours compar’d may be,

to quench her loving fire

who durst embrace her fire.

Nor all the howlings made

on Cybels sacred hill

By Eunukes of her trade,

who Atys, Atys still

with doubled cries resound,

which Eccho makes rebound.

Our plaints no limits stay,

nor more then do our woes:

both infinitely straie

and neither measure knowes

In B6r

In measure let them plaine:

Who measnur’d griefes sustaine.

Cleopatra. Eras. Charmion. Diomede.


That I have thee betraide, deare Antonie,

My life, my soule, my sunne? I had such thought?

That I have thee betraide my Lord, my King?

That I would breake my vowed faith to thee?

I flawed-reproductionone letterave thee? deceive thee yeelde thee to the rage

Of mightie foe? I ever had that hart?

Rather sharpe lightning lighten on my head:

Rather may I to deepest mischiefe fall:

Rather the opened earth devoure me:

Rather fierce Tigers feed them on my flesh:

Rather, ô rather let our Nilus send,

To swallow me quicke, some weeping Crocodile.

And didst thou then suppose my royall heart

Had B6v

Had hatcht, thee to ensnare, a faithles love?

And changing minde, as Fortune changed cheare,

I would weake thee, to winne the stronger, loose?

O wretch! ô caitive! ô too cruell happe!

And did not I sufficient losse sustaine

Loosing my Realme, loosing my libertie,

My tender of-spring, and the joyfull light

Of beamy Sunne, and yet, yet loosing more

Thee Antony my care, if I loose not

What yet remain’d? thy love alas! thy love,

More deare then Scepter, children, freedome, light

So readie I to row in Charons barge,

Shall leese the joy of dying in thy love:

So the sole comfort of my miserie

To have one tombe with thee is me bereft.

So I in shady plaines shall plaine alone,

Not (as I hop’d) companion of thy mone,

O height of griefe! Eras why with continuall cries

Your griefull harmes doo you exasperate?

Torment your selfe with murthering complaints;

Straine B7r

Straine your weake brest so oft, so vehemently?

Water with teares this faire alablaster?

With sorrowes sting so many beauties wound?

Come of so many Kings want you the hart

Bravely, stoutly, this tempest to resist?


My ev’lls are wholy unsupportable,

No humain force can them withstand, but death.


To him that strives nought is impossible.


In striving lyes no hope of my mishapps.


All things do yeelde to force of lovely face.


My face too lovely caus’d my wretched case.

My face hath so entrap’d, so cast us downe,

That for his conquest sar may it thanke,

Causing that Antonie one army lost

The other wholy did to sar yeld.

For not induring (so his amorouse sprite

Was with my beautie fir’de) my shamefull flight,

Soone as he saw from ranke wherein he stoode

In hottest fight, my Gallies making saile:

Forgetfull of his charg (as if his soule

Unto B7v

Unto his Ladies soule had beene enchain’d)

He left his men, who so couragiously

Did leave their lives to gaine him victorie.

And carelesse both of fame and armies losse

My oared Gallies follow’d with his ships

Companion of my flight, by this base parte

Blasting his former flourishing renowne.


Are you therefore cause of his overthrow?


I am sole cause: I did it, only I.


Feare of a woman troubled so his sprite?


Fire of his love was by my feare enflam’d.


And should he then to warre have led a Queene?


Alas! this was not his offence, but mine.


(ay me! who else so brave a chiefe!)

Would not I should have taken Seas with him:

But would have left me fearefull woman farre

From common hazard of the doubtfull warre.

O that I had beleev’d! now, now of Rome

All the great Empire at our beck should bende.

All should obey, the vagabonding Scythes,

The B8r

The feared Germaines, back-shooting Parthians,

Wandring Numidians, Brittons farre remov’d,

And tawny nations scorched with the Sunne.

But I car’d not: so was my soule possest,

(To my great harme) with burning jealousie:

Fearing least in my absence Antony

Should leaving me retake Octavia.


Such was the rigour of your desteny.


Such was my errour and obstinacie.


But since Gods would not, could you do withall?


Alwaies from Gods good haps, not harms, do fall.


And have they not all power on mens affaires?


They never bow so low. as worldly cares.

But leave to mortall men to be dispos’d

Freely on earth what ever mortall is.

If we therein sometimes some faults commit,

We may them not to their high majesties,

But to our selves impute; whose passions

Plunge us each day in all afflictions.

Wherwith when we our soules do thorned feele,

Flat B8v

Flatt’ring our selves we say they dest’nies are:

That gods would have it so, and that our care

Could not empeach but that it must be so.


Things here below are in the heav’ns begot,

Before they be in this our wordle borne:

And never can our weaknesse turne awry

The stailesse course of powerfull destenie.

Nought here force, reason, humaine providence,

Holie devotion, noble bloud prevailes:

And Jove himselfe whose hand doth heavens rule,

Who both to gods and men as King commands,

Who earth (our firme support) with plenty stores,

Moves aire and sea with twinckling of his eie,

Who all can doe, yet never can undoe

What once hath beene be their hard lawes decreed.

When Troyan walles, great Neptunes workmanship,

Environ’d were with Greekes, and Fortunes whele

Doubtfull ten yeares now to the campe did turne,

And now againe towards the towne return’d.

How many times did force and fury swell

In C1r

In Hectors veines egging him to the spoile

Of conquer’d foes, which at his blowes did fly,

As fearefull sheepe at feared wolves approch:

To save (in vaine: for why? it would not be)

Poore walles of Troy from adversaries rage,

Who died them in bloud, and cast to ground

Heap’d them with bloudie burning carcases.

No, Madame, thinke, that if the ancient crowne

Of your progenitors that Nilus rul’d,

Force take from you; the Gods have will’d it so,

To whome oft times Princes are odious.

They have to every thing an end ordain’d;

All worldly greatnes by them bounded is:

Some sooner, later some, as they thinke best:

None their decree is able to infringe.

But, which is more, to us disastred men

Which subject are in all things to their will,

Their will is hid: nor while we live, we know

How, or how long we must in life remaine.

Yet must we not for that feede on dispaire,

C And C1v

And make us wretched ere we wretched be:

But alwaies hope the best, even to the last,

That from our selves the mischiefe may not grow.

Then, Madame, helpe your selfe, leave of in time

Antonies wracke, lest it your wracke procure:

Retire you from him, save from wrathfull rage

Of angry sar both your Realme and you.

You see him lost, so as your amitie

Unto his evills can yeeld no more reliefe.

You see him ruin’d, so as your support

No more henceforth can him with comfort raise.

With-draw you from the storme: persist not still

To loose your selfe: this royall diademe

Regaine of sar.


Sooner shining light

Sall leave the day, and darknes leave the night:

Sooner moist currents of tempestuous seas

Shall wave in heaven, and the nightly troopes

Of starres shall shine within the foming waves,

Then I thee, Antony, Leave in deepe distres.

I am with thee, be it thy worthy soule

Lodge C2r

Lodge in thy brest, or from that lodging parte

Crossing the joyles lake to take her place

In place prepared for men Demy-gods.

Live, if thee please, if life be lothsome die:

Dead and alive, Antony, thou shalt see

Thy princesse follow thee, folow, and lament,

Thy wrack, no lesse her owne then was thy weale.


What helps his wrack this ever-lasting love?


Help, or help not, such must, such ought I prove.


Ill done to loose your selfe, and to no end.


How ill thinke you to follow such a frend?


But this your love nought mitigates his paine.


Without this love I should be inhumaine.


Inhumaine he, who his owne death pursues.


Not inhumaine who miseries eschues.


Live for your sonnes.


Nay for their father die.


Hardharted mother!


Wife kindhearted I.


Then will you them deprive of royall right?


Do I deprive them? no, it’s dest’nies might.


Do you not them deprive of heritage, C2 That C2v

That give them up to adversaries hands,

A man forsaken fearing to forsake,

Whome such huge numbers hold invironned?

T’abandon one gainst whome the frowning world

Banded with sar makes conspiring warre.


The lesse ought I to leave him lest of all.

A frend in most distresse should most assist.

If that when Antonie great and glorious

His legions led to drinke Euphrates streames,

So many Kings in traine redoubting him;

In triumph rais’d as high as highest heav’n;

Lord-like disposing as him pleased best,

The wealth of Greece, the wealth of Asia:

In that faire fortune had I him exchaung’d

For sar, then, men would have counted me

Faithles, unconstant, light: but now the storme,

And blustring tempest driving on his face,

Readie to drowne, Alas! what would they say?

What would himselfe in Plutos mansion say?

If I, whome alwaies more then life he lov’de,

If C3r

If I, Who am his heart, who was his hope,

Leave him, forsake him (and perhaps in vaine)

Weakly to please who him hath overthrowne?

Not light, unconstant, faithlesse should I be,

But vile, forsworne, of treachrous cruelty.


Crueltie to shunne you selfe-cruell are:

Cleopatra[Speaker label not present in original source]


Selfe-cruell him from cruelty to spare.


Our first affection to ourselfe is due.


He is my selfe.


Next it extends unto

Our children, frends, and to our country soile.

And you for some respect of wively love,

(Albee scarce wively) loose your native land,

Your children, frends, and (which is more) your life,

With so strong charmes doth love bewitch our witts:

So fast in us this fire once kindled flames.

Yet if his harme by yours redresse might have,


With mine it may be clos’de in darksome grave.


And that, as Alcest to her selfe unkind,

You might exempt him from the lawes of death.

But he is sure to die: and now his sword

C3 Alreadie C3v

Already moisted is in his warme bloud,

Helples for any succour you can bring

Against deaths sting, which he must shortly feele.

Then let your love be like the love of olde

Which Carian Queene did nourish in hir heart

Of hir Mausolus: builde for him a tombe

Whose statelinesse a wonder new may make.

Let him, let him have sumptuous funeralls:

Let grave thereon the horror of his fights:

Let earth be buri’d with unburied heaps.

Frame their Pharsaly, and discoulour’d stream’s

Of deepe Enipeus: frame the grassie plaine,

Which lodg’d his campe at siege of Mutina.

Make all his combats, and couragious acts:

And yearely plaies to his praise institute:

Honor his memory: with doubled care

Breed and bring up the children of you both

In sars grace: who as a noble Prince

Will leave them Lords of this most glorious realme.


What shame were that? ah Gods! what infamie? With C4r

With Antony in his good haps to share,

And overlive him dead: deeming enough

To shed some teares upon a widdow tombe?

The after-livers justly might report

That I him only for his Empire lov’d,

And high estate: and that in hard estate

I for another did him lewdly leave?

Like to those birds wafted with wandring wings

From foraine lands in spring-time here arrive:

And live with us so long as Somers heate,

And their foode lasts, then seeke another soile.

And as we see with ceaslesse fluttering

Flocking of feelly flies a brownish cloud

To vintag’d wine yet working in the tonne:

Not parting thence while they sweete liquor taste:

After, as smoke, all vanish in the aire,

And of the swarme not one so much appeare.


By this sharpe death what profit can you winne?


I neither gaine nor profit seeke therein.


What praise shall you of after-ages get?
Cl. C4v


Nor praise, nor Glory in my cares are set.


What other end ought you respect, then this?


My only end my onele duty is.


Your dutie must upon some good be founded?


On vertue it, the onely good, is grounded.


What is that vertue ?


That which us beseemes.


Outrage our selves? who that beseeming deemes?


Finish I will my sorrowes dieng thus.


Minish you will your glories doing thus.


Good frends I pray you seeke not to revoke

My fix’d intent of folowing Antony.

I will die. I will die: must not his life,

His life and death by mine be followed?

Meane while, deare sisters, live: and while you live,

Do often honor to our loved Tombes.

Straw them with flowers: and sometimes happely

The tender thought of Antony your Lord

And me poore soule to teares shall you invite,

And our true loves your dolefull voice commend.


And thinke you Madame, we from you will part? Thinke C5r

Thinke you alone to feele deaths ougly darte?

Thinke you to leave us? and that the same sunne

Shall see at once you dead, and us alive?

Weele die with you: and Clotho pittilesse

Shall us with you in hellish boate imbarque:


Ah live, I praie you: this disastred woe

Which racks my heart, alone to me belongs:

My lot longs not to you: servants to be

No shame, no harme to you, as is to me.

Live sisters, live, and seing his suspect

Hath causlesse me in sea of sorrowes drown’d,

And that I cannot live, if so I would,

Nor yet would leave this life, if so I could,

Without his love: procure me, Diomed,

That gainst poore me he be no more incensd.

Wrest out of his conceit that harmefull doubt,

That since his wracke he hath of me conceiv’d

Thogh wrong conceiv’d: witnes you reverent Gods,

Barking Anubis, Apis bellowing.

Tell him, my soule burning, impatient,

For- C5v

Forlorne with love of him, for certaine seale

Of her true loialtie my corpse hath left,

T’encrease of dead the number numberlesse.

Go then, and if as yet he me bewaile,

If yet for me his heart one sigh fourth breathe

Blest shall I be: and far with more content

Depart this world, where so I me torment.

Meane season us let this sad tombe enclose,

Attending here till death conclude our woes.


I will obey your will.


So the desert

The Gods repay of thy true faithfull heart.


And is’t not pittie, Gods, ah Gods of heav’n

To see from love such hatefull frutes to spring?

And is’t not pittie that this firebrand so

Laies waste the trophes of Phillippi fieldes?

Where are those sweet alluremēents, those sweet lookes,

Which gods thēemselves right hart sick wuld have made?

What C6r

What doth that beautie, rarest guift of heav’n,

Wonder of earth? Alas! what do those eies?

And that sweete voice all Asia understoode,

And sunburnt Africke wide in deserts spred?

Is their force dead? have they no further power?

Can not by them Octavius be suppriz’d?

Alas! if Jove in middst of all his ire,

With thunderbolt in hand some land to plague,

Had cast his eies on my Queene, out of hand:

His plaguing bolte had falne out of his hand:

Fire of his wrath into vaine smoke should turne,

And other fire within his brest should burne.

Nought lives so faire. Nature by such a worke

Her selfe, should seeme, in workmanship hath past.

She is all heav’nly: never any man

But seeing hir was ravish’d with her sight.

The Allablaster covering of her face,

The corall coullor hir two lips engraines,

Her beamy eies, two Sunnes of this our world,

Of hir faire haire the fine and flaming golde,

Her C6v

Her brave streight stature, and her winning partes

Are nothing else but fiers, fetters, dartes.

Yet this is nothing th’enchaunting skilles

Of her celestiall Sp’rite, hir training speach,

Her grace, hir majesty, and forcing voice,

Whither she it with fingers speach consorte,

Or hearing sceptred kings embassadors

Answere to each in his owne language make.

Yet now at neede it aides her not at all

With all these beauties, so her sorrow stinges.

Darkned with woe her only study is

To weepe, to sigh, to seeke for lonelines.

Careles of all, hir haire disordred hangs:

Hir charming eies whence murthring looks did flie,

Now rivers grown’, whose wellspring anguish is,

Do trickling wash the marble of hir face.

Hir faire discover’d brest with sobbing swolne

Selfe cruell the still martirith with blowes,

Alas! It’s our ill hap, for if hir teares

She would convert into her loving charmes,

To C7r

To make a conquest of the conqueror,

(As well she might, would she hir force imploie)

She should us saftie from these ills procure,

Hir crowne to hir, and to hir race assure.

Unhappy he, in whome selfe-succour lies,

Yet selfe-forsaken wanting succour dies.


O sweete fertile land, wherein

Phœbus did with breth inspire

man who men did first begin,

Formed first of Nilus mire.

whence of Artes the eldest kindes,

earths most heavenly ornament,

were as from their fountaine sent

to enlight our misty mindes.

whose grose sprite frōom endles time

as in darkned prison pente,

never did to knowledge clime.

Where C7v

Wher the Nile, our father good,

father-like doth never misse

yearely us to bring such food,

as to life required is:

visiting each yeare this plaine,

and with fat slime cov’ring it,

which his seaven mouthes do spit,

as the season comes againe.

making therby greatest growe

busie reapers joyfull paine,

when his flouds do highest flow.

Wandring Prince of rivers thou,

honor of the Aethiops lande,

of a Lord and maister now

thou a slave in awe must stand.

now of Tiber which is spred

lesse in force, and lesse in fame

reverence thou must the name,

whome all other rivers dread,

for his children swolne in pride,

who C8r

who by conquest seeke to treade

round this earth on every side.

Now thou must begin to send

tribute of thy watry store,

as sea pathes thy steps shall bend,

yearely presents more and more.

thy fat skumme, our fruitfull corne,

pill’d from hence with thevish hāands

all uncloth’d shal leave our lands

into forraine country borne.

which puft up with such a pray

shall thereby the praise adorne

of that scepter Rome doth sway.

Nought thee helps thy hornes to hide

far from hence in unknown groūunds,

that thy waters wander wide,

yerely breaking banks, and bounds.

and that thy Skie-coullor’d brooks

through a hundred peoples passe,

drawing plots for trees and grasse

with C8v

with a thousand turn’s and crookes.

whome all weary of their way

thy throats which in widenesse passe

powre into their mother Sea.

Nought so happie haplesse life

in this world as freedome findes:

nought wherin mor sparkes are rife

to inflame couragious mindes.

but if force must us inforce

needes a yoke to undergo,

under foraine yoke to go

Still it proves a bondage worse.

and doubled subjection

see we shall, and feele, and know

subject to a stranger growne.

From hence forward for a King,

whose first being from this place

should his brest by nature bring

care of country to imbrace,

We at surly face must quake

Of D1r

of some Romaine madly bent:

who our terrour to augment.

his Proconsuls axe will shake.

driving with our Kings from hence

our establish’d government,

justice sword, and lawes defence.

Nothing worldy of such might

but more mighty Destiny,

by swift Times unbridled flight,

makes in end his end to see.

every thing Time overthrowes,

nought to end doth steadfast staie.

his great sithe mowes all away

as the stalke of tender rose.

onely immortalitie

of the heavens doth it oppose

gainst his powrefull Deitie.

One day there will come a day

which shall quaile thy fortunes flower

and thee ruinde low shall laie

D In D1v

in some barbarous Princes power.

when the pittie-wanting fire

shall, O Rome, thy beauties burne,

and to humble ashes turne

thy proud wealth and rich attire,

those guilt roofes which turretwise,

justly making envy mourne,

threaten now to pearce Skies.

As thy forces fill each land

harvests making here and there,

reaping all with ravening hand

they find growing any where:

from each land so to thy fall

multitudes repaire shall make,

from the common spoile to take

what to each mans shaire may fall.

fingred all thou shalt behold:

no iote left for tokens sake

that thou wert so great of olde.

Like unto the ancient Troie

whence D2r

whence deriv’d thy founders be,

conqu’ring foe shall thee enjoie,

and a burning praie in thee.

for within this turning ball

this we see, and see each daie:

all things fixed ends do staie,

ends to first beginnings fall.

& that nought, how strong or strāange

chaungeles doth endure alwaie,

But enndureth fatall change.

M. Antonius. Lucilius.

M. Ant.

Lucil. sole comfort of my bitter case,

The only trust, the only hope I have,

In last despaire: Ah is not this the daie

That death should me of life and love bereave?

What waite I for that have no refuge left,

D2 But D2v

But am sole remnant of my fortune left?

All leave me, flie me: none, noe not of them

Which of my greatnes greatest good receiv’d,

Stands with my fall: they seeme as now asham’d

That heretofore they did me ought regard:

They draw them backe, shewing they folow’d me,

Not to partake my harm’s, but coozen me.


In this our world nothing is stedfast found,

In vaine he hopes, who here his hopes doth ground.


Yet nought afflicts me, nothing killes me so,

As that I so my Cleopatra see

Practise with sar, and to him transport

My flame, her love, more deare then life to me.


Beleeve it not: Too high a heart she beares,

Too princely thoughts.


Too wise a head she weare

Too much enflam’d with greatnes, evermore

Gaping for our great Empires goverment.


So long time you her constant love have tri’de.


But still with me good fortune did abide.


Her changed love what token makes you know?
An. D3r


Pelusium lost, and Actian overthrow,

Both by her fraud: my well appointed fleet,

And trusty Souldiors in my quarrell arm’d,

Whome she, false she, in stede of my defence,

Came to perswade, to yelde them to my foe:

Such honor Thyre done, such welcome given,

Their long close talkes I neither knew, nor would,

And trecherous wrong Alexas hath me donne,

Witnes too well her perjur’d love to me.

But you O Gods (if any faith regarde)

With sharpe revenge her faithlesse change reward.


The dole she made upon our overthrow,

Her realme given up for refuge to our men,

Her poore attire when she devoutly kept

The solemne day of her nativitie,

Againe the cost and prodigall expence

Shew’d when she did your birth day celebrate,

Do plaine enough her heart unfained prove,

Equally toucht, you loving, as you love.


Well; be her love to me or false, or true, D3 Once D3v

Once in my soule a cureles wound I feele.

I love: nay burne in fire of her love:

Each day, each night hir Image haunts my minde,

Her selfe my dreames: and still I tired am,

And still I am with burning pincers nipt.

Extreame my harme: yet sweeter to my sence

Then boiling Torch of jealous torments fire:

This griefe, nay rage, in me such sturre doth keepe,

And thornes me still, both when I wake and sleepe.

Take sar conquest, take my goods, take he

Th’onor to be Lord of the earth alone,

My sonnes, my life bent headlong to mishapps:

No force, so not my Cleopatra take.

So foolish I, I cannot her forget,

Though better were I banisht her my thought.

Like to the sicke whose throte the feavers fire

Hath vehemently with thirstie drought enflam’d,

Drinkes still, albee the drinke he still desires

Be nothing else but fewell to his flame.

He cannot rule himselfe: his health’s respect

Yealdeth D4r

Yealdeth to his distempered stomacks heate.


Leave of this love, that thus renewes your woe.


I do my best, but ah! can not do so.


Thinke how you have so brave a captaine bene,

And now are by this vaine affection falne.


The ceasles thought of my felicitie

Plunges me more in this adversitie.

For nothing so a man in ill torments,

As who to him his good state represents.

This makes my rack, my anguish, and my woe

Equall unto the hellish passions growe,

When I to mind my happie puisance call

Which erst I had by warlike conquest wonne,

And that good fortune which me never left,

Which hard disastre now hath me bereft.

With terror tremble all the world I made

At my sole word, as Rushes in the streames

At waters will: I conquer’d Italie,

I conquer’d Rome, that nations so redoubt.

I Bare (meane while besieging Mutina)

Two D4v

Two consuls armies for my ruine brought.

Bath’d in their bloud, by their deaths witnessing

My force and skill in matters Martiall.

To wreake thy unkle, unkind sar, I

With bloud of enemies the bankes embru’d

Of stain’d Enipeus, hindring his course

Stopped with heapes of piled carcases:

When Cassius and Brutus ill betide

Marcht against us, by us twise put to flight,

But by my sole conduct: for all the time

sar hart-sicke with feare and feaver lay.

Who knowes it not? and how by every one

Fame of the fact was giv’n to me alone.

There sprang the love, the never changing love,

Wherin my heart hath since to yours bene bound:

There was it, my Lucill, you Brutus sav’de,

And for your Brutus Antony you found.

Better my hap in gaining such a frend,

Then in subduing such an enimie.

Now former vertue dead doth me forsake,

Fortune D5r

Fortune engulfes me in extreame distresse:

She turnes from me her smiling countenance,

Casting on me mishapp upon mishapp,

Left and betraied of thousand thousand frends,

Once of my sute, but you Lucill are left,

Remaining to me stedfast as a tower

In holy love, in spite of fortunes blastes.

But if of any God my voice be heard,

And be not vainely scatt’red in the heav’ns,

Such goodnes shall not glorilesse be loste.

But comming ages still thereof shall boste.


Men in their frendship ever should be one,

And never ought with fickle Fortune shake,

Which still removes, nor will, nor knowes the way,

Her rowling bowle in one sure state to staie.

Wherfore we ought as borrow’d things receive

The goods light she lends us to pay againe:

Not hold them sure, nor on them build our hopes

As on such goods as cannot faile, and fall:

But thinke againe, nothing is dureable,

Vertue D5v

Vertue except, our never failing host:

So bearing faile when favoring windes do blow,

As frowning tempests may us least dismaie

When they on us do fall: not over-glad

With good estate, nor over-griev’d with bad.

Resist mishap.


Alas! it is too strong.

Mishappes oft times are by some comfort borne:

But these, ay me! whose weights oppresse my hart,

Too heavie lie, no hope can them relieve.

There rests no more, but that with cruell blade

For lingring death a hastie waie be made.


sar, as heire unto his fathers state.

So will his Fathers goodnes imitate,

To you ward: whome he know’s allied in bloud,

Allied in mariage, ruling equally

Th’ Empire with him, and with him making warre

Have purg’d the earth of sars murtherers.

You into portions parted have the world

Even like coheirs their heritages parte:

And now with one accord so many yeares

In D6r

In quiet peace both have your charges rul’d.


Bloud and alliance nothing do prevaile

To coole the thirst of hote ambitious brests:

The sonne his Father hardly can endure,

Brother his brother, in one common Realme.

So fervent this desire to commaund:

Such jealousie it kindleth in our hearts,

Sooner will men permit another should

Love her they love, then weare the crowne they weare.

All lawes it breakes, turnes all things upside downe:

Amitie, kindred, nought so holy is

But it defiles. A monarchie to gaine

None cares which way, so he may it obtaine.


Suppose he Monarch be and that this world

No more acknowledg sundry Emperours,

That Rome him only feare, and that he joyne

The east with west, and both at once do rule:

Why should he not permitt you peaceablie

Discharg’d of charge and Empires dignitie,

Private to live reading Philosophy,

In D6v

In learned Greece, Spaine, Asia, any land?


Never will he his Empire thinke assur’de

While in this world Marke Antony shall live.

Sleepeles Suspicion, Pale distrust, cold feare

Alwaies to princes companie do beare

Bred of reports: reports which night and day

Perpetuall guests from court go not away.


He hath not slaine your brother Lucius,

Nor shortned hath the age of Lepidus,

Albeit both into his hands were falne,

And he with wrath against them both enflam’d.

Yet one, as Lord in quiet rest doth beare,

The greatest sway in great Iberia:

The other with his gentle Prince retaines

Of highest Priest the sacred dignitie.


He feares not them, their feeble force he knowes.


He feares no vanquisht overfill’d with woes.


Fortune may chaunge againe.


A down-cast foe

Can hardly rise, which once is brought so low.


All that I can is donne: for last assay (When D7r

(When all means fail’d) I to entreaty fell,

(Ah coward creature!) whence againe repulst

Of combate I unto him proffer made:

Though he in prime, and I by feeble age

Mightily weakned both in force and skill.

Yet could not he his coward heart advaunce

Basely affraide to trie so praisefull chaunce.

This makes me plaine, makes me my selfe accuse,

Fortune in this her spitefull force doth use

’Gainst my gray hayres: in this unhappy I

Repine at heav’ns in my happes pittiles.

A man, a woman both in might and minde,

In Mars his schole who never lesson learn’d,

Should me repulse, chase, overthrow, destroy,

Me of such fame, bring to so low an ebbe?

Alcides bloud, who from my infancy

With happy prowesse crowned have my praise

Witnesse thou Gaule unus’d to servile yoke,

Thou valiant Spaine, you fields of Thessalie

With millions of mourning cries bewail’d,

Twise D7v

Twise watred now with bloud of Italie.


Witnes may Afrique, and of conquer’d world

All fower quarters witnesses may be.

For in what part of earth inhabited,

Hungry of praise have you not ensignes spred?


Thou know’st rich Aegipt (Aegipt of my deedes

Faire and foule subject) Aegypt ah! thou know’st

How I behav’d me fighting for thy kinge,

When I regainde him his rebellious Realme:

Against his foes in battaile shewing force,

And after fight in victory remorse.

Yet if to bring my glory to the ground,

Fortune had made me overthrowne by one

Of greater force, of better skill then I:

One of those Captaines feared so of olde,

Camill, Marcellus, worthy Scipio,

This late great sar, honor of our state,

Or that great Pompei aged growne in armes;

That after harvest of a world of men

Made in a hundred battailes, fights, assaults,

My D8r

My body thorow pearst with push of pike

Had vomited my bloud, in bloud my life,

In midd’st of millions felowes in my fall:

The lesse her wrong, the lesse should my woe:

Nor she should paine, nor I complaine me so.

No, no, wheras I should have died in armes,

And vanquisht oft new armies should have arm’d,

New battailes given, and rather lost with me

All this whole world submitted unto me:

A man who never saw enlaced pikes

With bristled points against his stomake bent,

Who feares the field, and hides him cowardly

Dead at the very noise the souldiors make.

His vertue, fraud, deceit, malicious guile,

His armes the arts that false Ulisses us’de,

Knowne at Modena, where the Consuls both

Death-wounded were, and wounded by his men

To get their armie, war with it to make

Against his faith, against his country soile.

Of Lepidus, which to his succours came,

To D8v

To honor whome he was by dutie bound,

The Empire he usurpt: corrupting first

with baites and bribes the most part of his men.

Yet me hath overcome, and made his pray,

And state of Rome, with me hath overcome.

Strange! one disordred act at Actium

The earth subdu’de, my glory hath obscur’d.

For since, as one whome heavens wrath attaints,

With furie caught, and more then furious

Vex’d with my evills, I never more had care

My armies lost, or lost name to repaire:

I did no more resist.


all warres affaires,

But battailes most, dayly have their successe

Now good, now ill: and though that fortune have

Great force and power in every worldly thing,

Rule all, do all, have all things fast enchaind

Unto the circle of hir turning wheele:

Yet seemes it more then any practise else

She doth frequent Bellonas bloudy trade:

And that hir favour, wavering as the wind,

Hir E1r

Hir greatest power therein doth oftnest shewe.

Whence growes, we dailie see, who in their youth

Gatt honor ther, do loose it in their age,

Vanquisht by some lesse warlike then themselves:

Whome yet a meaner man shall overthrowe.

Hir use is not to lend us still her hande,

But sometimes headlong backe a gaine to throwe,

When by hir favor she hath us extolld

Unto the topp of highest happines.


well ought I curse within my grieved soule,

Lamenting daie and night, this sencelesse love,

Whereby my faire entising foe entrap’d

My hedelesse Reason, could no more escape.

It was not fortunes ever chaunging face:

It was not Dest nies chaungles violence

Forg’d my mishap. Alas! who doth not know

They make, nor marre, nor any thing can doe.

Fortune, which men so feare, adore, detest,

Is but a chaunce whose cause unknow’n doth rest.

Although oft times the cause is well perceiv’d,

E But E1v

But not th’ effect the same that was conceiv’d.

Pleasure, nought else, the plague of this our life,

Our life which still a thousand plagues pursue,

Alone hath me this strange disastre spunne,

Falne from a souldior to a chamberer,

Careles of vertue, careles of all praise.

Nay, as the fatted swine in filthy mire

With glutted heart I wallowed in delights,

All thoughts of honor troden under foote.

So I me lost: for finding this sweet cupp

Pleasing my tast, unwise I drunke my fill,

And through the sweetnes of that poisons power

By steps I drave my former wits astraie.

I made my frends, offended me forsake,

I holpe my foes against my selfe to rise.

I robd my subjects, and for followers

I saw my selfe beset with flatterers.

Mine idle armes faire wrought with spiders worke,

My scattred men without their ensignes strai’d:

sar meane while who never would have dar’de

To E2r

To cope with me, me so dainely despis’de,

Tooke hart to fight, and hop’de for victorie

On one so gone, who glorie had forgone.


Enchaunting pleasure Venus sweete delights

Weaken our bodies, over-cloud our sprights,

Trouble our reason, from our hearts out chase

All holie vertues lodging in thir place:

Like as the cunnig fisher takes the fishe

By traitor baite whereby the hooke is hid:

So Pleasure serves to vice in steede of foode

To baite our soules thereon too liquorishe.

This poison deadly is alike to all,

But on great kings doth greatest outrage worke,

Taking the roiall scepters from their hands,

Thence forward to be by some stranger borne:

While that their people charg’d with heavie loades

Their flatt’rers pill, and suck their mary drie,

Not rul’d but left to great men as a pray,

While this fonde Prince himselfe in pleasur’s drowns

Who hears nought, sees noght, doth nought of a king

E2 Se- E2v

Seming himselfe against himselfe conspirde.

Then equall Justice wandreth banished,

And in her seat sitts greedie Tyrannie.

Confus’d disorder troubleth all estates,

Crimes without feare and outrages are done.

Then mutinous Rebellion shewes her face,

Now hid with this, and now with that pretence,

Provoking enimies, which on each side

Enter at ease, and make them Lords of all.

The hurtfull workes of pleasure here behold.


The wolfe is not so hurtfull to the folde,

Frost to the grapes, to ripened frutes the raine:

As pleasure is to princes full of paine.


There nedes no proofe, but by th’Assirian kinge,

On whom that Monster woefull wrack did bring.


There nedes no proofe, but by unhappie I,

Who lost my empire, honor, life thereby,


Yet hath this ill so much the greater force,

As scarcely any do against it stand:

No not the Demy-gods the olde world knew,

Who E3r

Who all subdu’de, could Pleasures power subdue.

Great Hercules, Hercules once that was

Wonder of earth and heaven, matchles in might,

Who Anteus, Lycus, Geryon overcame,

Who drew from hell the triple-headed dogg,

Who Hydra kill’d, vanquishd Achelous,

Who heavens weight on his strong shoulders bare:

Did he not under Pleasures burthen bow?

Did he not Captive to this passion yelde,

When by his Captive, so he was inflam’d,

As now your selfe in Cleopatra burne?

Slept in hir lapp, hir bosome kist and kiste,

With base unseemely service bought her love,

Spinning at distasse, and with sinewy hand

Winding on spindles threde, in maides attire?

His conqu’ring clubbe at rest on wal did hang:

His bow unstringd he bent not as he us’de:

Upon his shafts the weaving spiders spunne:

And his hard cloake the fretting mothes did pierce.

The monsters free and fearles all the time

E3 Through- E3v

Throughout the world the people did torment.

And more and more encreasing daie by daie

Scorn’d his weake heart become a mistresse play.


In onely this like Hercules am I,

In this I prove me of his lignage right:

In this himselfe, his deedes I shew in this:

In this, nought else, my ancestor he is.

But goe we: die I must, and with brave end

Conclusion make of all foregoing harmes:

Die, die I must: I must a noble death,

A glorious death unto my succour call:

I must deface the shame of time abus’d,

I must adorne the wanton loves I us’de,

With some couragious act: that my last day

By mine owne hand my spots may wash away.

Come deare Lucill: alas! why weepe you thus!

This mortall lot is common to us all.

We must all die, each doth in homage owe

Unto that God that shar’d the Realmes belowe.

Ah sigh no more: alas! appeace your woes,

For E4r

For by your greife my griefe more eager growes.


Alas, with what tormenting fire.

Us martireth this blind desire

to stay our life from flieng!

How ceasleslie our minds doth rack,

How heavie lies upon our back

This dastard feare of dieng!

Death rather healthfull succour gives,

Death rather all mishapps relieves

That life upon us throweth:

And ever to us death unclose

The dore whereby from curelesse woes

Our weary soule out goeth.

What Goddesse else more milde then she

To burie all our paine can be,

What remedie more pleasing?

Our pained hearts when dolor stings,

And E4v

And nothing rest, or respite brings,

What help have we more easing?

Hope which to us doth comfort give,

And doth our fainting harts revive,

Hath not such force in anguish:

For promising a vaine reliefe

She oft us failes in midst of griefe,

And helples lets us languish.

But Death who call on her at neede

Doth never with vaine semblant seed,

But when them sorrow paineth,

So riddes their soules of all distresse

Whose heavie weight did them oppresse,

That not one griefe remaineth.

Who feareles and with courage bolde

Can Acherons black face behold,

Which muddie water beareth:

And crossing over in the way

Is not amaz’d at Perruque gray

Olde rusty Charon weareth?

Who E5r

Who voide of dread can looke upon

The dreadfull shades that Rome alone,

On bankes where found no voices:

Whome with hir fire-brands and her Snakes

No whit afraide Alecto makes,

Nor triple-barking noises:

Who freely can himselfe dispose

Of that last hower which all must close,

And leave this life at pleasure:

This noble freedome more esteemes,

And in his heart more precious deemes,

Then crowne and kinglie treasure,

The waves which Boreas blasts turmoile

And cause with foaming furie boile,

Make not his heart to tremble:

Nor brutish broile, when with strong head

A rebell people madly ledde

Against their Lords assemble:

Nor fearefull face of Tirant wood,

Who breaths but threats, & drinks but bloud,

No E5v

No, nor the hand which thunder,

The hand of Jove which thunder beares,

And ribbs of rocks in sunder teares,

Teares mountains sides in sunder:

Nor bloudy Marses butchering bands,

Whose lightnings desert laie the lands

Whome dustie cloudes do cover:

From of whose armour sun-beames flie,

And under them make quaking lie

The plaines wheron they hover:

Nor yet the cruell murth’ing blade

Warme in the moistie bowels made

Of people pell mell dieng

In some great Cittie put to sack

By savage Tirant brought to wrack,

At his colde mercie lieng.

How abject him, how base thinke I,

Who wanting courage can not dye

When need him thereto calleth?

From whome the dagger drawne to kill

The E6r

The cureles griefes that vexe him still

For feare and faintnes falleth?

O Antony with thy deare mate

Both in misfortunes fortunate!

Whose thoughts to death aspiring

Shall you protect from victors rage,

Who on each side doth you encage,

To triumph much desiring.

That sar may you not offend

Nought else but death can you defend,

Which his weake force derideth.

And all in this round earth containd,

Powr’les on them whome once enchaind

Avernus prison hideth:

Where great Psammetiques ghost doth rest,

Not with infernall paine possest,

But in sweete fields detained:

And olde Amasis soule likewise,

And all our famous Ptolomies

That whilome on us raigned.

Act.4 E6v

Act. 4

sar. Agrippa. Dircetus.
The Messenger.


You ever-living Gods which all things holde

Within the power of your celestiall hands,

By whome heate, colde, the thunder, and the wind,

The properties of enterchaunging mon’ths

Their course and being have; which do set downe

Of Empires by your destinied decree

The force, age, time, and subject to no chaunge

Chaunge all, reserving nothing in one state:

You have advaunst, as high as thundring heav’n

The Romaines greatnes by Bellonas might:

Maistring the world with fearefull violence,

Making the world widdow of libertie.

Yet at this day this proud exalted Rome

De- E7r

Despoil’d, captiv’d, at one mans will doth bend:

Her Empire mine, her life is in my hand,

As Monarch I both world and Rome commaund;

Do all, can all; foorth my command’ment cast

Like thundring fire from one to other Pole

Equall to Jove: bestowing by my word

Happs and mishappes, as Fortunes King and Lord.

No towne there is, but up my Image settes,

But sacrifice to me doth dayly make:

Whither where Phœbus joyne his mourning steedes,

Or where the night them weary entertaines,

Or where the heat the Garamants doth scorch,

Or where the colde from Boreas breast is blowne:

All sar do both awe and honor beare,

And crowned Kings his verie name doth feare.

Antony knowes it well, for whome not one

Of all the Princes all this earth do rule,

Armes against me: for all redoubt the power

which heav’nly powers on earth have made me beare.

Antony, he poore man with fire inflam’de

A E7v

A womans beauties kindled in his heart.

Rose against me, who longer could not beare

My sisters wrong he did so ill intreat:

Seing her left while that his leud delights

Her husband with his Cleopatre tooke

In Alexandria, where both nights and daies

Their time they pass’d in nought but loves and plaies.

All Asias forces into one he drewe,

And forth he set upon the azur’d waves

A thousand and a thousand Shipps, which fill’d

With Souldiors, pikes, with targets, arrowes, darts,

Made Neptune quake, and all the watry troupes

Of Glanques, and Tritons lodg’d at Actium,

But mightie Gods, who still the force withstand

Of him, who causles doth another wrong,

In lesse then moments space redus’d to nought

All that proud power by Sea or land he brought.


Presumptuous pride of heigh and hawtie sprite,

Voluptuous care of fond and foolish love,

Have justly wrought his wrack: who thought he helde

(By E8r

(By overweening) Fortune in his hand.

Of us he made no count, but as to play,

So feareles came our forces to assay.

So sometimes fell to Sonnes of mother earth,

Which crawl’d to heav’n warre on the God to make,

Olymp on Pelion, Ossa on Olymp,

Pindus on Ossa loading by degrees:

That at hand strokes with mightie clubbes the might

On mossie rocks the Gods make tumble downe:

When mightie Jove with burning anger chas’d,

Disbraind with him Gyges and Briareus,

Blunting his darts upon their brused bones.

For no one thing the Gods can lesse abide

In deedes of men, then Arrogance and pride.

And still the proud, which too much takes in hand,

Shall fowlest fall, where best he thinkes to stand.


Right as some Pallace, or some stately tower,

Which over-lookes the neighbour buildings round

In scorning wise, and to the starres up growes,

Which in short time his owne weight overthrowes.

What E8v

What monstrous pride, nay what impietie

Incenst him onward to the Gods disgrace?

When his two children, Cleopatras bratts,

To Phœbe and her brother he compar’d,

Latonas race, causing them to be call’d

The Sunne and Moone? Is not this follie right

And is not this the Gods to make his foes?

And is not this himselfe to worke his woes?


In like proud sort he caus’d his hed to leese

The Jewish king Antigonus, to have

His Realme for balme, that Cleopatra lov’d,

As though on him he had some treason prov’d.


Lidia to her, and Siria he gave,

Cyprus of golde, Arabia rich of smelles:

And to his children more Cilicia,

Parth’s, Medes, Armenia, Phœnicia:

The kings of kings proclaming them to be,

By his owne word, as by a sound decree.


What? Robbing his owne country of her due

Triumph’d he not in Alexandria,

Of F1r

Of Artabasus the Armenian King,

Who yeelded on his perjur’d word to him?


Nay, never Rome more injuries receiv’d,

Since thou, ô Romulus, by flight of birds

With happy hand the Romain walles did’st build,

Then Antonyes fond loves to it hath done.

Nor ever warre more holie, nor more just,

Nor undertaken with more hard constraint,

Then is this warre: which were it not, our state

Within small time all dignitie should loose:

Though I lament (thou Sunne my witnes art,

And thou great Jove) that it so deadly proves:

That Romaine bloud should in such plentie flowe,

Watring the fields and pastures where we go.

What Carthage in olde hatred obstinate,

What Gaule still barking at our rising state,

What rebell Samnite, what fierce Phyrrhus power,

What cruell Mithridate, what Parth hath wrought

Such woe to Rome? whose common wealth he had,

(Had he bene victor) into Egypt brought.

F Agr. F1v


Surely the Gods, which have this cittie built

Steadfast to stand as long as time endures,

Which keepe the Capitoll, of us take care,

And care will take of those shall after come,

Have made you victor, that you might redresse

Their honor growne by passed mischieves lesse.


The seelie man when all the Greekish Sea

His fleete had hid, in hope me sure to drowne,

Me battaile gave: where fortune in my stede,

Repulsing him his forces disaraied.

Himselfe tooke flight, soone as his love he saw

All wanne through feare with full sailes flie away.

His men, though lost, whome none did now direct,

With courage fought fast grappled shipp with shipp,

Charging, resisting, as their oares would serve,

With darts, with swords, with pikes, with fiery flames.

So that the darkned night her starrie vaile

Upon the bloudy sea had over-spred,

Whilst yet they held: and hardly, hardly then

They fell to flieng on the wavie plaine,

All F2r

All full of soldiors overwhelm’d with waves.

The aire throughout with cries & grones did sound:

The sea did blush with bloud: the neighbour shores

Groned, so they with shipwracks pestred were,

And floting bodies left for pleasing foode

To birds, and beasts, and fishes of the sea,

You know it well Agrippa.


Mete it was

The Romain Empire so should ruled be,

As heav’n is rul’d: which turning over us,

All under things by his example turnes.

Now as of heav’n one onely Lord we know:

One onely Lord should rule this earth below.

When one selfe pow’re is common made to two

Their duties they nor suffer will, nor doe.

In quarell still, in doubt, in hate, in feare;

Meane while the people all the smart do beare.


Then to the end none, while my daies endure,

Seeking to raise himselfe may succours find,

We must with bloud marke this our victory,

For just example to all memorie

F2 Murther F2v

Murther we must, until not one we leave,

Which may hereafter us of rest bereave.


Marke it with murthers? Who of that can like?


Murthers must use, who doth assurance seeke.


Assurance call you enemies to make?


I make no such, but such away I take.


Nothing so much as rigour doth displease.


Nothing so much doth make me live at ease.


What ease to him that feared is of all?


Feared to be, and see his foes to fall.


Commonly feare doth brede and nourish hate.


Hate without pow’r comes commonly too late.


A feared Prince hath oft his death desir’d


A Prince not fear’d hath oft his wrong conspir,d.


No guard so sure, nor forte so strong doth prove.

No such defence, as is the peoples love.


Nought more unsure more weak, more like the

Then Peoples favour still to change enclinde.


Good Gods! what love to gratious prince men


What honor to the Prince that is severe!
Ag. F3r


Nought more divine then is Benigntie.


Nought likes the Gods as doth Severity.


Gods all forgive.


On faults they paines do lay.


And give their goods.


Oft times they tak away


They wreake them not, ô sar, at each time

That bvy our sinnes they are to wrath provok’d.

Neither must you (beleeve, I humblie praie)

Your victorie with crueltie defile.

The Gods it gave, it must not be abus’d,

But to the good of all men mildely us’d,

And they bethank’d: that having giv’n you grace

To raigne alone, and rule this earthly masse,

They may hence-forward hold it still in rest,

All scattered power united in one brest.


But what is he that breathles comes so fast,

Approching us, and going in such hast?


He seemes affraid: and under his arme I

(But much I erre) a bloudy sword espie.


I long to understand what it may be.


He hither comes: it’s best we stay and see.
F3 Dirce- F3v


What good God now my voice will reenforce,

That tell I may to rocks, and hilles, and woods,

To waves of sea, which dash upon the shore,

To earth, to heaven, the woefull newes I bring?


What so daine chance thee towards us hath broght


A lamentable chance. O wrath of heav’ns!

O Gods too pittiles!


What monstrous hap

Wilt thou recount?


Alas too hard mishap!

When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld,

My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quivering quake,

I senceles stand, my brest with tempest tost

Killes in my throte my words, ere fully borne.

Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say,

This murthering sword hath made the man away.


Alas my heart doth cleave, pittie me rackes,

My brest doth pant to heare this dolefull tale.

Is Antony then dead? to death, alas!

I am the cause despaire him so compelld.

But soldior of his death the manner showe,

And how he did this living light forgoe.

Dir. F4r


When Antony no hope remaining saw

How warre he might, or how agreement make,

Saw him betraid by all his men of warre

In every fight as well by sea, as land;

That not content to yeeld them to their foes

They also came against himselfe to fight:

Alone in court he gan himselfe torment,

Accuse the Queene, himselfe of hir lament,

Call’d hir untrue and traitresse, as who sought

To yeeld him up she could no more defend:

That in the harmes which for hir sake he bare,

As in his blisfull state, she might not share.

But she againe, who much his fury fear’d,

Gat to the tombes, darke horrors dwelling place:

Made lock the doores, and pull the hearses downe.

Then fell she wretched, with hir selfe to fight.

A thousand plaints, a thousand sobbes she cast

From hir weake brest which to the bones was torne.

Of women hir the most unhappy call’d,

Who by hir love, hir woefull love, had lost

Hir F4v

Hir realme, hir life, and more the love of him,

Who while he was, was all hir woes support.

But that she faultles was she did invoke

For witnes heav’n, and aire, and earth, and sea.

Then sent him word, she was no more alive,

But lay inclosed dead within her tombe.

This he beleev’d; and fell to sigh and grone,

And crost his armes, then thus began to mone.


Poore hopeles man!


What dost thou more attend

Ah Antony! why dost thou death deferre.

Since Fortune thy professed enimie,

Hath made to die, who only made thee live?

Sone as with sighes hee had these words up clos’d,

His armor he unlaste and cast it off,

Then all disarm’d he thus againe did say:

My Queene, my heart, the griefe that now I feele.

Is not that I your eies, my Sunne, do loose,

For soone againe one tombe shall us conjoyne:

I grieve, whome men so valorous did deeme,

Should now, then you, of lesser valor seeme.

So F5r

So said, forthwith he Eros to him call’d,

Eros his man; summond him on his faith

To kill him at his nede. He tooke the sword,

And at that instant stab’d therwith his breast,

And ending life fell dead before his feete.

O Eros thankes (quoth Antony) for this

Most noble acte, who pow’rles me to kill,

On thee hast done, what I on mee should do.

Of speaking thus he scarsce had made an end,

And taken up the bloudy sword from ground,

But he his bodie piers’d; and of red bloud

A gushing fountaine all the chamber fill’d.

He staggred at the blow, his face grew pale,

And on a couche all feeble downe he fell,

Sounding with anguish: deadly cold him tooke,

As if his soule had then his lodging left

But he reviv’d, and marking all our eies

Bathed in teares, and how our breasts we beate

For pittie, anguish, and for bitter griefe,

To see him plong’d in extreame wretchednes:

He F5v

He prai’d us all to haste his lingring death:

But no man willing, each himselfe withdrew.

Then fell he new to cry and vexe himselfe,

Untill a man from Cleopatra came,

Who said from hir he had commaundement

To bring him to hir to the monument.

The poore soule at these words even rapt with joy

Knowing she liv’d, prai’d us him to convey

Unto his Lady. Then upon our armes

We bare him to the Tombe, but entred not.

For she who feared captive to be made,

And that she should to Rome in triumph goe,

Kept close the gate but from a window high

Cast downe a corde, wherein he was impackt.

Then by hir womens help the corps she rais’d,

And by strong armes into hir window drew.

So pittifull a sight was never seene.

Little and little Antony was pull’d,

Now breathing death: his beard was all unkempt,

His face and brest al bathed in his bloud.

So F6r

So hideous yet, and dieng as he was,

His eies half-clos’d uppon the Queene he cast:

Held up his hands, and holpe himselfe to raise,

But still with weaknes back his bodie fell.

The miserable ladie with moist eies,

With haire which careles on hir forhead hong,

With brest which blowes had bloudily benumb’d,

With stooping head, and body down-ward bent,

Enlast hir in the corde, and with all force

This life-dead man couragiously uprais’d,

The bloud with paine into hir face did flowe,

Hir sinewes stiff, her selfe did breathles grow.

The people which beneath in flocks beheld,

Assisted her with gesture, speach, desire:

Cride and incourag’d her, and in their soules

Did sweate, and labor, no whit lesse then she.

Who never tir’d in labor, held so long

Helpt by her women, and hir constant heart,

That Antony was drawne into the tombe,

And there (I thinke) of dead augments the summe.

The F6v

The cittie all to teares and sighes is turn’d,

To plaints and outcries horrible to heare:

Men, women, children, hoary-headed age

Do all pell mell in house and streete lament,

Scratching their faces, tearing of their haire,

Wringing their hands, and martyring their brests

Extreame their dole: and greater misery

In sacked townes can hardlie ever be

Not if the fire had scal’de the highest towers:

That all things were of force and murther full;

That in the streets the bloud in rivers stream’d;

The sonne his sire saw in his bosome slaine,

The sire his sonne: the husband reft of breath

In his wives armes, who furious runnes to death.

Now my brest wounded with their piteouse plaints

I left their towne, and tooke with me this sworde,

Which I tooke up at what time Antony

Was from his chamber caried to the tombe:

And brought it you, to make his death more plaine,

And that thereby my words may credite gaine.

s. F7r


Ah Gods what cruell hap! poore Antony,

Alas hast thou this sword so long time borne

Against thy foe, that in the end it should

Of thee his Lord the cursed murth’rer be?

O Death how I bewaile thee! we (alas!)

So many warres have ended, brothers, frends,

Companions, coozens, equalls in estate:

And must it now to kill thee be my fate?


Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?

For Antony why spend you teares in vaine?

Why darken you with dole your victory?

Me seemes your selfe your glory do envie.

Enter the towne, give thanks unto the Gods.


I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,

Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,

And unchast love of this Aegiptian.


But best we sought into the tombe to get,

Lest she consume in this amazed case

So much rich treasure, with which happely

Despaire in death may make hir feede the fire:

Suf- F7v

Suffring the flames hir Jewells to deface,

You to defraud, hir funerall to grace.

Sende then to hir, and let some meane be us’d

With some devise so hold her still alive,

Some faire large promises: and let them marke

Whither they may be some fine cunning slight

Enter the tombes.


Let Proculeius goe,

And feede with hope hir soule disconsolate.

Assure hir soe, that we may wholy get

Into our hands hir treasure and her selfe.

For this of all things most I do desire

To keepe her safe until! our going hence:

That by hir presence beautified may be

The glorious triumph Rome prepares for me.

Chorus of Romaine Souldiors.

Shall ever civile bate

gnaw and devour our state?

shall F8r

shall never we this blade,

our bloud hath bloudy 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 stomacks led

against the place us bred?

Then still must heaven view

the plagues that us pursue.

and every wher descrie

Heaps of us scattred lie,

making the stranger plaines

fat with our bleeding raines,

proud F8v

proud that on them their grave

so many legious have.

And with our fleshes still

Neptune his fishes fill

and dronke with bloud from blue

the sea take blushing hue:

as juice of Tyrian shell,

when clarified well

to wolle of finest fields

a purple glosse it yeeldes.

But since the rule of Rome,

to one mans hand is come,

who governes without mate

hir now united state,

late jointly rulde by three

envieng mutuallie,

whose triple yoke much woe

on Latines necks did throwe:

I hope the cause of jarre,

and of this bloudie warre,

and G1r

and deadly discord gone

by what we last have done:

our banks shall cherish now

the branchie pale-hew’d bow

of Olive, Pallas praise,

in stede of barraine baies.

And that his temple dore,

which bloudy Mars before

held open, now at last

olde Janus shall make fast:

and rust the sword consume,

and spoild of waving plume,

The useles morion shall

on crooke hang by the wall.

At least if warre returne

It shall not here sojourne,

to kill us with those armes

were forg’d for others harmes:

but have their points addrest,

against the Germaines brest,

G The G1v

The Parthians fayned flight,

the Biscaines martiall might.

Olde Memory doth there

painted on forehead weare

our Fathers praise: thence torne

our triumphs baies have worne:

therby our matchles Rome

whilome of Shepeheards come

rais’d to this greatnes stands,

the Queene of forraine lands.

Which now even seemes to face

the heav’ns, her glories place:

nought resting under skies

that dares affront her eies.

So that she needes but feare

the weapons Jove doth beare,

who angry at one blowe

may her quite overthrowe.

Act. G2r

Act. 5,

Cleopatra. Euphron. Children of Cleopatra.
Charmion. Eras.


O cruell fortune! ô accursed lot!

O plaguy love! ô most detested brand!

O wretched joyes! ô beauties miserable!

O deadly state! ô deadly roialtie!

O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!

O Antony by my faulte buriable!

O hellish worke of heav’n! alas! the wrath

Of all the Gods at once on us is falne.

Unhappie Queene! ô would I in this world

The wandring light of day had never seene?

Alas! of mine the plague and poison I

The crowne have lost my ancestors me left,

This Realme I have to strangers subject made,

G2 And G2v

And robd my children of their heritage.

Yet this is nought (alas!) unto the price

Of you deare husband, whome my snares intrap’d:

Of you, whome I have plagu’d, whom I have made

With bloudy hand a guest of mouldie tombe:

Of you, whome I destroied, of you, deare Lord,

Whome I of Empire, honor, life have spoil’d.

O hurtfull woman! and can I yet live,

Yet longer live in this Ghost-haunted tombe?

Can I yet breath I can yet in such annoy,

Yet can my soule within this body dwell?

O Sisters you that spin the thredes of death!

O Styx! ô Plegethon! you brookes of hell!

O Impes of Night!


Live for your childrens sake:

Let not your death of kingdome them deprive.

Alas what shall they do who will have care?

Who will preserve this royall race of yours?

Who pittie take? even now me seemes I see

These little soules to servile bondage falne,

And borne in triumph.


Ah most miserable!
emph. G3r


Their tender armes with cursed cord fast bound

At their weake backs.


Ah Gods what pitty more!


Their seely necks to ground with weaknes bend


Never on us, good Gods, such mischiefe send.


And pointed at with fingers as they go.


Rather a thousand deaths.


Lastly his knife

Some cruell cative in their bloud embrue.


Ah my heart breaks. By shady banks of hell,

By fields whereon the lonely Ghosts do treade,

By my soule, and the soule of Antony

I you besech, Euphron, of them have care.

Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett

That they fall not into this Tyrants hands.

Rather conduct them where their freezed locks

Black Aethiops to neighbour Sunne do shew;

On wavie Ocean at the waters will;

On barraine cliffes of snowie Caucasus;

To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;

And rather, rather unto every coaste,

To ev’ry land and sea: for nought I feare

G3 As G3v

As rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench.

Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:

Good Isis you to place of safety guide,

Farre from our foes, where you your lives may leade

In free estate devoid of servile dread.

Remember not, my children, you were borne

Of such a Princely race: remember not

So many brave Kings which have Egipt rul’de

In right descent your ancestors have beene:

That this great Antony your father was,

Hercules bloud, 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 false Destinie

The Scepters promis’d of imperious Rome,

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 heart is clos’d,

With G4r

With pittie and paine, my selfe with death enclos’d,

My breath doth faile. Farwell for evermore,

Your Sire and me you shall see never more.

Farwell sweet care, farwell.


Madame Adieu.


Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swound.

I can no more, I die.


Madame, alas!

And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to us.


Come Children.


We come.


Follow we our

The Gods shall guide us.


O too cruell lot!

O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,

What shall we do, alas! if murthring darte

Of death arrive while that in slumbring swound

Halfe dead she lie with anguish overgone?


Her face is frozen.


Madame for Gods love

Leave us not thus: bid us yet first farwell.

Alas! wepe over Antony: Let not

His bodie be without due rites entomb’d.


Ah, ah.




Ay me!


How fainte
she is?


My Sisters, holde me up. How wretched I,

How cursed am: and was there ever one

By G4v

By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?

Ah, weeping Niobe, although thy heart

Beholds it selfe enwrap’d in causefull woe

For thy dead children, that a sencelesse rocke

With griefe become, on Sipylus thou stand’st

In endles teares: yet didst thou never feele

The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.

Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule have lost,

And lost their Father, more then them I waile,

Lost this faire realme; yet me the heavens wrath

Into a stone not yet transformed hath.

Phætons sisters, daughters of the Sunne,

Which waile your brother falne into the streames

Of stately Po: the Gods upon the bankes

Your bodies to banke-loving Alders turn’d.

For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,

And heaven pittiles laughes at my woe,

Revives, renewes it still: and in the ende

(Oh cruelty!) doth death for comfort lend.

Die Cleopatra then no longer stay

From G5r

From Antony, who thee at Styx attends:

Go joyne thy Ghost with his, and sob no more

Without his love within these tombes enclos’d.


Alas! yet let us wepe, lest sodaine death

From him our teares, and those last duties take

Unto his tombe we owe.


Ah let us wepe

While moisture lasts, then die before his feete.


Who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares

My boiling anguish worthily to waile,

Waile thee Antony, Antony my heart?

Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!

Yet have mine eies quite drawne their Condits 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 outflowe,

And smoking yet with thine in mixture grow.

Moist it, and heat it newe, and never stop,

All watring thee, while yet remaines one drop.


Antony take our teares: this is the last Of G5v

Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,

Before we die.


These sacred obseques

Take Antony, and take them in good parte.


O Goddesse thou whom Cyprus doth adore,

Venus of Phaphos, bent to worke us harme

For olde Julus broode, if thou take care

Of sar, why of us tak’st thou no care?

Antony did descend, as well as he,

From thine owne Sonne by long enchained line:

And might have rul’d by one and selfe same fate,

True Trojan bloud, the stately Romain state.

Antony, poore Antony, my deare soule,

Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,

Thy life thy heat is lost, thy coullour gone,

And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.

Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of love,

Which yet for tents to warlike Mars did serve,

Lock’d up in lidds (as faire daies cherefull light

Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.

Antony by our true loves I thee beseeche,

And G6r

And by our hearts sweete sparks have set 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: heare Antony, ô heare

My sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there.

Lived thus long, the winged race of yeares

Ended I have as Destinie decreed,

Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken just revenge

Of him who me both hated and despisde.

Happie, alas too happie: if of Rome

Only the fleete had hither never come.

And now of me an Image great shall goe

Under the earth to bury there my woe.

What say I? where am I? ô Cleopatra,

Poore Cleopatra, griefe thy reason reaves.

No, no, most happie in this happles case,

To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:

My bodie joynde with thine, my mouth with thine,

My G6v

my mouth, whose moisture burning sighes have 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 stay 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,

Under the Cypres trees thou haunt’st alone,

Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone.

But yet I stay, and yet thee overlive,

That ere I die due rites I may thee give.

A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,

With thousand plaints thy funeralls adorne:

My haire shall serve 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, weepe, and from your eies

Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.

Mine can no more, consumed by the coales

Which G7r

Which from my brest, 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 beauties more to keepe?

I spent in teares, not able more to spende,

But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?

Then let me kisse you, you faire eies, my light,

Front seat of honor, face most firce, most faire!

O neck, ô armes, ô hands, ô breast where death

(O mischiefe) comes to choake up vitall breath.

A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more

Let you my mouth for honors farewell give:

That in this office weake my limmes may growe,

Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flow.

At Ramsbury.

Printed at London by P.S.
for William Ponsonby. 15951595.