E3r E3v F1r

The Argument.

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 wonne by them
from the Romains, at the discomfiture and slaughter of
Crassus. But comming in his journey into Siria, the places
renewed in his remembrance the long intermitted
love of Cleopatra Queene of Aegipt: 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 regard of his vertuous wife Octavia,
by whom nevertheles he had excellent Children. This
occasion Octavius tooke of taking armes against him:
and preparing a mighty fleet, encountred him at Actium,
who also had assembled to that place a great number of
Gallies of his own, besides 60. which Cleopatra brought
with her from Aegipt. But at the very beginning of the
battell Cleopatra with all her Gallies betooke her to
flight, which Antony seeing could not but follow; by his
departure leaving to Octavius the greatest victorye F. which F1v
which in any Sea Battell hath beene heard off. Which he
not negligent to pursue, followes them the next spring,
and besiedgeth them within Alexandria, where Antony
finding all 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 monument she had
before caused to be built, thence sends him woord she was
dead: which he beleeving for truth, gave himselfe with
his Swoord a deadly wound: but died not untill a messenger
came from Cleopatra to have him brought to her to
the tombe. Which she not daring to open least she should be
made a prisoner to the Romaines, and carried in sars
triumph, cast downe a corde from an high window, by
the which (her women helping her) she trussed up Antonius
halfe dead, and so got him into the monument.
The Stage supposed Alexandria: the Chorus, first Egiptians,
and after Romane Souldiors. The Historie to be read
at large in Plutarch in the life of Antonius.

The Actors.



Eras and


Cleopatras women.

Philostratus a Philosopher.


Diomede Secretary to Cleopatra.

Octavius Cæsar.


Euphron, teacher of Cleopatras children.

Children of Cleopatra.

Dircetus the Messenger.



Since cruell Heav’ns

against me obstinate,

Since all mishappes

of the round engin doo

Conspire my harme:

since men, since powers divine,

Aire, earth, and Sea

are all injurious:

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

The Idoll of my hart, doth me pursue;

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

My Country, Caæsar 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 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.

F2 Yelded F2v

Yelded Pelusium on this Countries shore,

Yelded 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 think with me his glory to adorne,

On me alive to use his victorie.

Thou only Cleopatra triumph hast,

Thou only hast my freedome 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 my libertie, that nought remain’d.

None els hencefoorth, 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 F3r

The daies of losse that gained thee thy love!

Wretch Antony! since then Mægæra pale

With Snakie haires enchain’d thy miserie.

The fire thee burnt was never Cupids fire

(For Cupid beares not such a mortall brand)

It was some furies torch, Orestes torche,

which sometimes 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 Ægipts Queene

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 from 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 F3v

Recur’d thy sprite: and then on every side

Thou mad’st againe the earth with Souldiours swarme.

All Asia hidde: Euphrates bankes do tremble

To see at once so many Komanes 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 troupes.

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 engins sit (mishap!) not thither brought.

So long thou stai’st, so long thou doost 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 woords,

Sweetenes, 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 diches, rampiers, wards, entrenched grounds:

Thy only care is sight of Nilus streames,

Sight of that face whose guilefull semblant doth

(Wandring in thee) infect thy tainted hart.

Her absence thee besottes: each hower, each hower

of F4r

Of staie, to thee impatient seemes an age.

Enough of conquest, praise thou deem’st enough,

If soone enough the bristled fieldes thou see

Of fruitfull Ægipt, and the stranger floud

Thy Queenes faire eyes (another Pharos) lights.

Returned loe, dishonoured, despisde,

In wanton love a woman thee misleades

Sunke in foule sinke: meane while respecting nought

Thy wife Octavia and her tender babes,

Of whom 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 holde, scarse maister of thy selfe,

Late maister of so many nations.

Yet, yet, which is of grief extreamest grief,

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 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 F4v

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 company.


The boyling tempest still

Makes not Sea waters fome:

Nor still the Northern blast

Disquiets quiet streames:

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 dayly mates

Our lives do entertaine:

And woes which beare no dates

Still pearch upon our heads,

None go, but streight will be

Some greater in their Steads.

Nature G1r

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 groowe,

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 clinge even to the crowne,

And threatning furious wise

From tirannizing pates

Do often pull it downe.

In vaine on waves untride

to shunne them go we should

To Scythes and Massagetes

Who neare the Pole reside:

In vaine to boiling sandes

Which Phæbus 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 dayes

To follow Titan pure:

No more the shadow light

The body to ensue:

Then wretchednes alwaies

G. Vs G1v

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.

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

full fraught our breasts have borne:

And thousand thousand woes

Our heav’nly soules now thorne,

Which free before from those

No! earthly passion pain’d.

Warre and warres bitter cheare

Now long time with us staie,

And feare of hated foe

Still still encreaseth sore:

Our harmes worse dayly growe,

Lesse yester daye they were

Then G2r

Then now, and will be more

To morowe then to daye.

Act. 2.


What horrible furie, what cruell rage,

O Ægipt 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 hart bloud to bathe?

And that their burning wrath which nought can quench

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:

Nor yet of him who fained lightnings found:

Nor cruell Tantalus, nor bloudie Atreus,

Whose cursed banquet for Theyestes 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 wickednes

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?

G2 With G2v

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 prizing 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 (would now they did) whom worlds did feare,

Abandoned, betraid, now mindes no more

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

Come you poore people tir’de with ceasles plaints

With teares and sighes make mournfull sacrifice

On Isis altars: not our selves to save,

But soften sar and him piteous make

To us, his pray: that so his lenitie

May change our death into captivitie.

Strange are the evils the fates on us have brought,

O but alas! how farre 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 harts, 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,

Fi’ring a brand which after made to burne

The Troian towers by Græcians ruinate.

By this love, Priam, Hector, Troilus,

Memnon, Deiphobus, Glaucus, thousands mo,

Whome redd Scamanders armor clogged streames

Roll’d G3r

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

So plaguie he, so many tempests raiseth,

So murdring he, so many Cities raiseth,

When insolent, blinde, lawles, orderles,

With madd delights our sence he entertaines.

All knowing Gods our wracks did us foretell

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 fearefull dragon whistling at the bankes,

And holie Apis ceaseles bellowing

(As never erst) and shedding endles teares:

Bloud raining downe from heav’n in unknow’n showers:

Our Gods darke faces overcast with woe,

And dead mens Ghosts appearing in the night.

Yea even this night while all the Cittie stoode

Opprest with terror, horror, servile feare,

Deepe silence over all: the sounds were heard

Of diverse songs, and divers 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 hencefoorth obedient must become

To lawes of them who have us overcome.

G3 Chorus G3v


Lament we our mishaps,

Drowne we with teares our woe:

For Lamentable happes

Lamented easie growe:

And much lesse torment bring

Then when they first did spring.

We want that wofull song,

Wherwith wood-musiques Queene

Doth ease her woes, among,

fresh springtimes bushes greene,

On pleasant branche alone

Renewing auntient mone.

We want that monefull sounde,

That pratling Progne makes

On fieldes of Thracian ground,

Or streames of Thracian lakes:

To empt her brest of paine

For Itys by her slaine.

Though Halcyons doo 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 though the birde in death

That most Meander loves

So swetely sighes his breath

When death his fury proves,

As G4r

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 Phæbus bredd

In teares can doo so well,

They for their brother shedd,

Who into Padus fell,

Rash guide of chariot cleare

Surveiour of the yeare.

Nor she whom heav’nly powers

To weping rocke did turne,

Whose teares distill in showers,

And shew she yet doth mourne,

Where with his toppe to Skies

Mount Sipylus doth rise.

Nor weping drops which flowe

From barke of wounded tree,

That Myrrhas shame do showe

With ours compar’d may be,

To quench her loving fire

Who durst embrace her sire.

Nor all the howlings made

On Cybels sacred hill

By Eunukes of her trade,

Who Atys, Atys still

With doubled cries resound,

Which G4v

Which Echo makes rebound.

Our plaints no limits stay,

Nor more then doo our woes:

Both infinitely straie

And neither measure knowes.

In measure let them plaine:

Who measur’d griefes sustaine.

Cleopatra. Eras. Charmion. Diomede.


That I have thee betraid, 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?

Leave 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 devower 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 hart

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! â too cruell happe!

And did not I sufficient losse sustaine

Loosing my Realme, loosing my liberty,

My H1r

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 ready 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 your weake breast 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, bnut 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 Antony one army lost

The other wholy did to sar yeld.

For not induring (so his armorouse sprite

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

H. Soone H1v

Soone as he saw from ranke wherin he stoode

In hottest fight, my Gallies making saile:

Forgetfull of his charge (as if his soule

Unto his Ladies soule has bene enchain’d)

He left his men, who so couragiouslie

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 overthrowe?


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 ledd a Queene?


Alas! this was not his offence, but mine.

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

Would not I should have taken Seas with him:

But would have left me fearfull woman farre

From common hazard of the doubtfull warre.

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

All the great Empire at our beck should bende.

All should obey, the vagabonding Scythes,

The feared Germains, back-shooting Parthians,

Wandring Numidians, Brittons farre remoov’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 destinie.
Cl. Such H2r


Such was my errour and obstinacie.


But since Gods would not, could you doe withall?


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


And have they not all power on mens affaires?


They never bow so lowe, as worldly cares.

But leave to mortall men to be dispos’d

Freelie on earth what ever mortall is.

If wether in sometimes some faultes commit,

We may them not to their high maiesties,

But to our selves impute; whose passions

Plunge us each day in all afflictions.

Wherwith when we our soules do thorned feele,

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 belowe are in the heav’ns begot,

Before they be in this our wordllde borne:

And never can our weaknes turne awry

The stailes 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 commaunds,

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 been by their hard lawes decreed.

When Troian 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:

H2 How H2v

How many times did force and fury swell

In Hectors veines egging him to the spoile

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

As fearefull shepe at feared wolves approche:

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

Pore walles of Troie 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 odiouse.

They have to every thing an end ordain’d;

All wordly greatnes by them bounded is;

Some sooner, later some, as they think 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 hidd: nor while we live, we know

How, or how long we must in life remaine.

Yet must we not for that feede on dispaire,

And make us wretched ere we wretched bee:

But alwaies hope the best, even to the last,

That from our selves the mischief may not growe.

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

Antonies wracke, lest it your wracke procure:

Retire you frrom 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 yelde no more reliefe.

You see him ruin’d, so as your support

No H3r

No more hencefourth can him with comfort raise.

With-draw you from the storme: persist not still

To loose your selfe: this royall diademe

Regaine of sar.


Soner shining light

Shall leave the daie, and darknes leave the night:

Sooner moist currents of tempestuous seas

Shall wave in heaven, and the nightlie troopes

Of starres shall shine within the foming waves,

Then I thee, Antonie, Leave in depe distres.

I am with thee, be it thy worthy soule

Lodge in thy brest, or from that lodging parte

Crossing the joyles lake to take hir place

In place prepared for men Demy-gods.

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

Dead and alive, Antonie, 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 ende.


How ill thinke you to follow such a frende?


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.


Hardhearted 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 not deprive of heritage,

That give them up to adnuversaries handes,

H53 A H3v

A man forsaken fearing to forsake,

Whome such huge numbers hold environned?

T’ abandon one gainst whome the frowning world

Banded with Cæsar makes conspiring warre.


The lesse ought I to leave him lest of all.

A friend in most distresse should most assist.

If that when Antonie great and glorious

His legiouns led to drinke Euphrates streames,

So many Kings in traine redoubting him;

In triumph rais’d as high as highest heaun;

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 saie?

What would himselfe in Plutos mansion saie?

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

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 crueltie.


Crueltie to shunne, you selfe-cruell are.


Selfe-cruell him from crueltie to spare.


Our first affection to our self is due.


He is my selfe.


Next it extendes unto

Our children, frends, and to our countrie soile.

And you for some respect of wivelie love,

(Albee scarce wivelie) loose you native land,

Your H4r

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 hir selfe unkinde,

You might exempt him from the lawes of death.

But he is sure to die: and now his sworde

Alreadie moisted is in his warme bloude,

Helples for any succour you can bring

Against deaths stinge, which he must shortlie feele.

Then let your love be like the love of olde

Which Carian Queene did nourish in hir heart

Osf hir Mausolus: builde for him a tombe

Whose statelinesse a wonder new may make.

Let him, let him have sumtuouse funeralles:

Let grave thereon the horror of his fights:

Let earth be buri’d with unburied heaps.

Frame ther Pharsaly, and discoulour’d stream’s

Of depe Enipeus: frame the grassie plaine,

Which lodg’d his campe at siege of Mutina.

Make all his combats, and couragiouse acts:

And yearly plaies to his praise institute:

Honor his memorie: 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 gloriouse realme.


What shame were that? ah Gods! what infamie?

With Antonie in his good happs to share,

And overlive him dead: deeming enough

To shed some teares upon a widdowe tombe?

The H4v

The after-livers justly might report

That I him onlie for his empire lov’d,

And high state: and that in hard estate

I for another did him lewdlie 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 seke another soile.

And as we see with ceaslesse fluttering

Flocking of seely flies a brownish cloud

To vintag’d wine yet working in the tonne,

Not parting thence while they swete liquor taste:

After, as smoke, all vanish in the aire,

And of the swarme not one so much appeare.


By this sharp death what profit can you winne?


I neither gaine, nor profit seke therin.


What praise shall you of after-ages gett?


Nor praise, nor glory in my cares are sett.


What other end ought you respect, then this?


My only ende my onely dutie is.


your dutie must upon some good be founded.


On vertue it, the onlie good, is grounded.


What is that vertue?


That which us beseemes.


Outrage our selves? who that beseeming deemes?


Finish I will my sorowes dieng thus.


Minish you will your glories doing thus–


Good frends I praie you seeke not to revoke

My fix’d intent of folowing Antonie.

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

His life and death by mine be folowed?

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

Doe I1r

Doe often honor to our loved Tombes.

Straw them with flowrs: and sometimes happelie

The tender thought of Antonie your Lorde

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 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 belonges:

My lott 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 sorowes drown’d,

And that I can not 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 harmfull doubt,

That since his wracke he hath of me conceiv’d

Though wrong conceiv’d: witnesse you reverent Gods,

Barking Anubis, Apis bellowing.

Tell him, my soule burning, impatient,

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

I Blest I1v

Blest shall I be: and farre with more content

Depart this world, where so I me torment.

Meane season us let this sadd 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 Philippi fieldes?

Where are those swete allurements, those swete lookes,

Which Gods themselves right hart-sicke would have made?

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

Wonder of earth? Alas! what doe those eies?

And that swete voice all Asia understoode,

And sunburnt Afrike wide in deserts spred?

Is their force dead? have they no further power?

Can not by them Octavius be surpriz’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 hande

His plaguing bolte had falne out of his hande:

Fire of his wrathe 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 seme, in workmanship hath past.

She is all heav’nlie: never any man

But seing hir was ravish’d with her sight.

The I2r

The Allablaster covering of hir face,

The corall coullor hir two lipps engraines,

Her beamie eies, two Sunnes of this our world,

Of hir faire haire the fine and flaming golde,

Her brave streight stature, and hir winning partes

Are nothing else but fiers, fetters, dartes.

Yet this is nothing th’e’nchaunting skilles

Of her cælestiall Sp’rite, hir training speache,

Her grace, hir Maiestie, and forcing voice,

Whither she it with fingers speach consorte,

Or hearing sceptred kings embassadors

Answer to eache in his owne language make.

Yet now at nede she aides hir not at all

With all these beauties, so hir sorowe stings.

Darkned with woe hir only studie is

To wepe, to sigh, to seke for lonelines.

Careles of all, hir haire disordred hangs:

Hir charming eies whence murthring looks did flie,

Now rivers grown’, whose well spring anguish is,

Do trickling wash the marble of hir face.

Hir faire discover’d brest with sobbing swolne

Selfe cruell she still martireth with blowes,

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

She would convert into hir loving charmes,

To make a conquest of the conqueror,

(As well shee 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 self-forsaken wanting succour dies.

Cho- I2v


O swete fertile land, wherin

Phæbus did with breath inspire

Man who men did first begin,

Formed first of Nilus mire.

Whence of Artes the eldest kindes,

Earthes most heavenly ornament,

Were as from their fountaine sent,

To enlight our mistie mindes.

Whose grosse sprite from endles time,

As in darkned prison pente,

Never did to knowledg clime.

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 fatt slime cov’ring it,

Which his seaven mouthes do spitt,

As the season comes againe.

Making therby greatest growe

Busie reapers joyfull paine,

When his flouds do highest flowe.

Wandring Prince of rivers thou,

Honor of the Æthiops lande,

Of a Lord and master now

Thou a slave in awe must stand.

Now of Tiber which is spred

Lesse in force, and lesse in fame

Re- I3r

Reverence thou must the name,

Whome all other rivers dread,

For his children swolne in pride,

Who by conquest seeke to treade

Round this earth on every side.

Now thou must begin to sende

Tribute of thy watrie store,

As Sea pathes thy stepps shall bende,

Yearely presents more and more.

Thy fatt skumme, our frutefull corne,

Pill’d from hence with theevish hands

All uncloth’d shall leave our lands

Into foraine Countrie borne.

Which puft up with such a pray

Shall therby the praise adorne

Of that scepter Rome doth sway.

Nought thee helps thy hornes to hide

Farre from hence in unknowne grounds,

That thy waters wander wide,

Yearely breaking bankes, and bounds.

And that thy Skie-coullor’d brookes

Through a hundred peoples passe,

Drawing plots for trees and grasse

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 worlde as freedome findes:

Nought wherin more sparkes are rife

To inflame couragious mindes.

I3 But I3v

But if force must us enforce

Nedes a yoke to undergoe,

Under foraine yoke to goe

Still it proves a bondage worse.

And doubled subjection

See we shall, and feele, and knowe

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 Countrie to embrace,

We at surly face must quake

Of some Romaine madly bent:

Who, our terrour to augment,

His Proconsuls axe will shake.

Driving with our Kings from hence

Our establish’d goverment,

Justice sworde, and Lawes defence.

Nothing worldly of such might

But more mightie Destinie,

By swift Times unbridled flight,

Makes in ende his ende to see.

Every thing Time overthrowes,

Nought to ende doth stedfast staie:

His great sithe mowes all away

As the stalke of tender rose.

Onlie Immortalitie

Of the Heav’ns doth it oppose

Gainst his powerfull Deitie.

One daie there will come a daie

Which shall quaile thy fortunes flower,

And I4r

And thee ruinde low shall laie

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 Envie mourne,

Threaten now to pearce Skies.

As thy forces fill each land

Harvests making here and there,

Reaping all with ravening hand

They finde growing anywhere:

From each land so to thy fall

Multitudes repaire shall make,

From the common spoile to take

What to each mans share maie fall.

Fingred all thou shalt beholde:

No jote left for tokens sake

That thou wert so great of olde.

Like unto the auncient Troie

Whence deriv’de 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.

And that nought, how strong or strange,

Chaungles doth endure alwaie,

But endureth fatall change.

M. An- I4v 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,

But am sole remnant of my fortune left?

All leave me, flie me: none, no not of them

Which of my greatnes greatest good receiv’d,

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

That heretofore they did me ought regarde:

They draw them back, 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 groūund.


Yet nought afflicts me, nothing killes me so,

As that I so my Cleopatra see

Practize 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 Princelie 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?


Pelusium lost, and Actian overthrow, Both K1r

Both by her fraud: my well appointed fleet,

And trustie Souldiors in my quarell arm’d,

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

Came to persuade, to yelde them to my foe:

Such honor Thyre done, such welcome given,

Their long close talkes I neither knew, nor would,

And treacherouse wrong Alexas hath me done,

Witnes too well her perjur’d love to me.

But you O Gods (if any faith regarde)

With sharpe revenge her faithles 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,

Once in my soule a cureles wound I feele.

I love, nay burne in fire of her love:

Each day, each night her 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 jealouse torments fire:

This grief, nay rage, in me such sturre doth kepe,

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

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.

K. So K1v

So foolish I, I can not her forget,

Though better were I banisht her my thought.

Like to the sicke, whose throte the feavers fire

Hath vehemently with thirstie drouth enflam’d,

Drinkes still, albee the drinke he still desires

Be nothing else but fewell to his flame:

He can not rule himselfe: his health’s respect

Yeldeth to his distempred stomackes 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 minde 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 worde, as Rushes in the streames

At waters will: I conquer’d Italie,

I conquer’d Rome, that Nations so redoubt.

I bare (meanewhile besieging Mutina)

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, unkinde sar, I

With bloud of enemies the bankes embru’d

Of K2r

Of stain’d Enipeus, hindering 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 heart-sicke with feare and feaver laie.

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 hart hath since to yours bene bound:

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

And for your Brutus Antonie you found.

Better my happ in gaining such a frende,

Then in subduing such an enemie.

Now former vertue dead doth me forsake,

Fortune engulfes me in extreame distresse:

She turnes from me her smiling countenance,

Casting on me mishapp upon mishapp,

Left and betraide of thousand thousand frends,

Once of my sute, but you Lucil 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 therof 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:

K2 Not K2v

Not holde them sure, nor on them builde our hopes

As one such goods as cannot faile, and fall:

But thinke againe, nothing is dureable,

Vertue except, our never failing hoste:

So bearing saile when favouring windes do blowe,

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 stronge.

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 warde: whome he know’s allies in bloud,

Allied in mariage, ruling equallie

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 coheir’s their heritages parte:

And now with one accord so many yeares

In quiet peace both have your charges rul’d.


Bloud and alliance nothing do prevaile

To coole the thirst of hote ambitious breasts:

The sonne his Father hardly can endure,

Brother his brother, in one common Realme.

So fervent this desier to commaund:

Such jealousie it kindleth in our hearts.

Sooner will men permit another should

Love her they love, then weare the Crowne they

All K3r

All lawes it breakes, turns all things upside downe:

Amitie, kindred, nought so holie is

But it defiles. A monarchie to gaine

None cares which way, so he maie it obtaine.


Suppose he Monarch be and that this world

No more acknowledg sundrie Emperours.

That Rome him onelie 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 Philosophie,

In learned Greece, Spaine, Asia, anie lande?


Never will he his Empire thinke assur’de

While in this world Marke Antonie shall live.

Sleeples Suspicion, Pale distrust, colde 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 hardlie rise, which once is brought so lowe.


All that I can, is done: for last assay

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

(Ah K3v

(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

Baselie affraid to trie so prasisefull chaunce.

This makes me plaine, makes me my selfe accuse,

Fortune in this hir spitefull force doth use

’Gainst my gray hayres: in this unhappie I

Repine at heav’ns in my happes pittiles.

A man, a woman both in might and minde,

In Marses schole who never lesson learn’d,

Should me repulse, chase, overthrow, destroie,

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

Alcides bloud, who from my infancie

With happie 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 watred now with bloude of Italie.


witnesse may Afrique, and of conquer’d world

All fower quarters witnesses may be.

For in what part of earth inhabited,

Hungrie of praise have you not ensignes spredd?


Thou knowst rich Ægypt (Ægypt of my deeds

Faire and foule subject) ægypt 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 victorie remorse.

Yet if to bring my glorie to the ground,

Fortune had made me overthrowne by one

Of K4r

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 bodie 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 hir 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 pointes against his stomake bent,

Who feares the field, and hides him cowardly

Dead at the verie noise the souldiors make.

His vertue, fraude, deceit, malicious guile,

His armes the arts that false Ulisses us’de,

Knowne at Modena, wher the Consuls both

Death-wounded were, and wounded by his men

To gett their armie, warre with it to make

Against his faith, against his countrie soile.

Of Lepidus, which to his succours came,

To honor whome he was by dutie bounde,

The Empire he vsurpt: 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 K4v

Strange! one disordred act at Actium

The earth subdu’de, my glorie 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, daily have their successe

Now good, now ill: and though that fortune have

Great force and power in every wordlie 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 Ballonas bloudie trade:

And that hir favour, wavering as the wind,

Hir greatest power therin 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 lende us still her hande,

But sometimes headlong back 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.

For- L1r

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,

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 wallow’d in delights,

All thoughts of honor troden under foote.

So I me lost: for finding this swete cupp

Pleasing my tast, unwise I drunke my fill,

And through the swetenes of that poisons power

By stepps I drave my former witts 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 besett 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 cope with me, me sodainlie despis’de,

Tooke hart to fight, and hop’de for victorie

On one so gone, who glorie had forgone.


Enchaunting pleasure, Venus swete delights

Weaken our bodies, over-cloud our sprights,

Trouble our reason, from our harts out chase

All holie vertues lodging in their place.

Like as the cunning fisher takes the fishe

By traitor baite wherby the hooke is hidde:

L So L1v

So Pleasure serves to vice in steede of foode

To baite our soules theron too licourishe.

This poison deadlie is alike to all,

But on great kings doth greatest outrage worke,

Taking the Roiall scepters from their hands,

Thenceforward to be by some straunger borne:

While that their people charg’d with heavy loades

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

Not ru’lde but left to great men as a pray,

While this fonde Prince himselfe in pleasur’s drowns:

Who heares nought, sees nought, doth nought of a king,

Seming himselfe against himselfe conspirde.

Then equall Justice wandreth banished,

And in hir seat sitts greedie Tyrannie.

Confus’d disorder troubleth all estates,

Crimes without feare and outrages are done.

Then mutinous Rebellion shewes hir 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 fruits the raine:

As pleasure is to Princes full of paine.


Ther nedes no proofe, but by th’ Assirian kinge,
On whome that Monster woefull wrack did bring.


Ther nedes no proofe, but by unhappie I,

Who lost my empire, honor, life therby.


Yet hath this ill so much the greater force,

As scarcelie anie do against it stand:

No, not the Demy-gods the olde world knew,

Who all subdu’de, could Pleasures power subdue.

Great L2r

Great Hercules, Hercules once that was

Wonder of earth and heav’n, 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 enflam’de,

As now your selfe in Cleopatra burne?

Slept in hir lapp, hir bosome kist and kiste,

With base unsemelie service bought her love,

Spinning at distaffe, 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 freating mothes did pierce.

The monsters free and fearles all the time

Throughout the world the people did torment,

And more and more encreasing daie by day

Scorn’d his weake heart become a mistresse plaie.


In onlelie 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 ende

Conclusion make of all foregoing harmes:

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

A glorious death unto my succor call:

I must deface the shame of time abus’d,

I must adorne the wanton loves I us’de

L32 With L2v

With some couragiouse act: that my last daie

By mine owne hand my spotts may wash away.

Come deare Lucill: alas! why wepe 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 by your griefe more eager growes.


Alas, with what tormenting fire.

Us martireth this blinde desire

To staie our life from flieng!

How ceasleslie our minds doth rack,

How heavie lies upon our back

This dastard feare of dieng!

Death rather healthfull succor gives,

Death rather all mishapps relieves

That life upon us throweth:

And ever to us doth unclose

The doore, wherby from curelesse woes

Our wearie soule out goeth.

What Goddesse else more milde then shee

To burie all our paine can be,

What remedie more pleasing?

Our pained hearts when dolor stings,

And nothing rest, or respite brings,

What help have we more easing?

Hope which to us doth comfort give,

And doth or fainting hearts revive,

Hath not such force in anguish:

For L3r

For promising a vaine reliefe

She oft us failes in midst of griefe,

And helples letts us languish.

But Death who call on her at nede

Doth never with vaine semblant feed,

But when them sorow 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 beholde,

Which muddie water beareth:

And crossing over, in the way

Is not amaz’d at Perruque gray

Olde rustie Charon weareth:

Who voide of dread can looke upon

The dreadfull shades that rome alone,

On bankes where sound no voices:

Whom with her fire-brands and her Snakes

No whit afraide Alecto makes,

Nor triple-barking noyses:

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 hart more precious deemes,

Then Crowne and kingly 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 L3v

A rebell people madly ledde

Against their Lords assemble:

Nor fearfull face of Tirant wood,

Who breaths but threats, and drinks but bloud,

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 bloudie 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’ring blade

Warme in the moistie bowells 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 think I,

Who wanting courage can not dye

When need him therto calleth?

From whom the dagger drawne to kill

The curelesse griefes that vexe him still

For feare and faintnes falleth?

O Antonie with thy deare mate

Both in misfortunes fortunate!

Whose thoughts to death aspiring

Shall you protect frrom victors rage,

Who on each side doth you encage,

To L4r

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 whom once enchaind

Avernus prison hideth:

Where great Psammetiques ghost doth rest,

Not with infernall paine possest,

But in swete fields detained:

And olde Amasis soule likewise,

And all our famous Ptolemies

That whilome on us raigned.

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 winde,

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 Romains greatnes by Bellonas might:

Mastring the world with fearfull violence,

Making L4v

Making the world widow of libertie.

Yet at this daie this proud exalted Rome

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

Her Empire mine, her life is in my hand,

As Monarch I both world and Rome commaund;

Do all, can all; fourth my commaund’ment cast

Like thundring fire from one to other Pole

Equall to Jove: bestowing by my worde

Happes 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 Phæbus joyne his morning steedes,

Or where the night them weary entertaines,

Or where the heat the Garamants doth scorche,

Or where the colde from Boreas breast is blowne:

All sar do both awe and honor beare,

And crowned Kings his verie name do feare.

Antonie knowes it well, for whom 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.

Antonie, he poore man with fire enflam’de

A womans beauties kindled in his heart,

Rose against me, who longer could not beare

My sisters wrong he did so ill entreat:

Seing her left while that his leud delights

Her husband with his Cleopatra tooke

In Alexandrie, 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 sett upon the azur’d waves

A thou- M1r

A thousand and a thousand Shipps, which fill’d

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

Made Neptune quake, and all the watrie troupes

Of Glauques 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.


Presumptuouse pride of high and hawtie sprite,

Voluptuouse care of fonde and foolish love,

Have justly wrought his wrack: who thought he helde

(By overweening) Fortune in his hand.

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

So fearles came our forces to assay.

So sometimes fell to Sonnes of Mother Earth,

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

Olymp on Pelion, Ossa on Olymp,

Pindus on Ossa loading by degrees:

That at hand strokes with mightie clubbes they might

On mossie rocks the Gods make tumble downe:

When mightie Jove with burning anger chaf’d,

Disbraind with him Gyges and Briareus,

Blunting his darts upon their brused bones.

For no one thing the Gods can lesse abide

In dedes of men, then Arrogance and Pride.

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

Shall fowlest fall, where best he thinks 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 monstrous pride, nay what impietie

M. Incenst M1v

Incenst him onward to the Gods disgrace?

When his two children, Cleopatras bratts,

To Phæbe and her brother he compar’d,

Latonas race, causing them to be call’d

The Sunne and Moone? Is not this folie right?

And is not this the Gods to make his foes?

And is not this himself to worke his woes?


In like proud sort he caus’d his head 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.


Lydia to her, and Siria he gave,

Cyprus of golde, Arabia rich of smelles:

And to his children more Cilicia,

Parth’s, Medes, Armenia, Phænicia:

The kings of kings proclaiming them to be,

By his owne worde, as by a sound decree.


What? Robbing his owne countrie of her due

Triumph’d he not in Alexandria,

Of Artabasus the Armenian King,

Who yelded 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 Antonies 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 M2r

That Romain bloud should in such plentie flowe,

Watring the fields and pastures where we goe.

What Carthage in olde hatred obstinate,

What Gaule still barking at our rising state,

What rebell Samnite, what fierce Pyrrhus power,

What cruell Mithridate, what Parth hath wrought

Such woe to Rome? whose common wealth he had,

(Had he bene victor) into Egipt brought.


Surely the Gods, which have this Cittie built

Stedfast to stand as long as time endures,

Which kepe 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 hidd, in hope me sure to drowne,

Me battaile gave: where fortune, in my stede,

Repulsing him his forces disaraied.

Him selfe 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 fierie flames.

So that the darkned night her starrie vaile

Upon the bloudie sea had over-spred,

Whilst yet they held: and hardlie, hardlie then

They fell to flieng on the wavie plaine.

All full of Souldiors overwhelm’d with waves:

The aire throughout with cries and grones did sound:

The Sea did blush with bloud: the neighbor shores

M2 Groned M2v

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 self 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 ende none, while my daies endure,

Seeking to raise himselfe may succours finde,

We must with bloud marke this our victorie,

For just example to all memorie.

Murther we must, untill 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 comonly too late.


A feared Prince hath oft his death desir’d.


A prince not fear’d hath oft his wrong conspir’de.
Ag. No M3r


No guard so sure, no forte so strong doth prove,

No such defence, as is the peoples love.


Nought more unsure more weak, more like the

Then Peoples favor still to chaunge enclinde.


Good Gods! what love to gracious Prince men beare!


What honor to the Prince that is severe!


Nought more divine then is Benignitie.


Nought likes the Gods as doth Severitie.


Gods all forgive.


On faults they paines do laie.


And give their goods.


Oft times they take away.


They wreake them not, ô sar, at each time

That by our sinnes they are to wrathe provok’d.

Neither must you (beleve, 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 mildlie us’d,

And they be thank’d: that having giv’n you grace

To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie masse,

They may hence-forward hold it still in rest,

All scattred power united in one brest.


But what is he, that breathles comes so fast,

Approching us, and going in such hast?


He semes affraid: and under his arme I

(But much I erre) a bloudie sworde espie.


I long to understand what it may be.


He hither comes: it’s best we stay and see.


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 heav’n, the woefull newes I bring?


What sodaine chaunce thee towards us hath brought?


A lamentable chance. O wrath of heav’ns! O M3v

O Gods too pittiles!


What monstrous happ

Wilt thou recount?


Alas too hard mishapp!

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 wordes, 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 breast doth pant to heare this dolefull tale.

Is Antonie then dead? To death, alas!

I am the cause despaire him so compelld.

But souldiour of his death the maner showe,

And how he did this living light forgoe.


When Antonie 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 lande;

That not content to yeld them to their foes

They also came against himselfe to fight:

Alone in Court he gan himself torment,

Accuse the Queene, himselfe of hir lament,

Call’d hir untrue and traytresse, as who sought

To yeld 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 furie fear’d,

Gatt to the Tombes, darke horrors dwelling place:

Made lock the doores, and pull the hearses downe.

Then fell shee 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 M4r

Of women hir the most unhappie call’d,

Who by hir love, hir woefull love, had lost

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 worde, she was no more alive,

But lay inclosed dead within hir 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 Antonie! why dost thou death deferre:

Since Fortune thy professed enimie,

Hath made to die, who only made thee live?”

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

His armor he unlaste, and cast it of,

Then all disarm’d he thus againe did say:

“My Queene, my heart, the grief that now I feele,

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

For soone againe one Tombe shal us conjoyne:

I grieve, whom men so valorouse did deeme,

Should now, then you, of lesser valor seeme.”

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 sworde,

And at that instant stab’d therwith his breast,

And ending life fell dead before his fete.

“O Eros thankes” (quoth Antonie) “for this

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

On thee hast done, what I on mee should doe.”

Of speaking thus he scarce had made an ende,

And taken up the bloudie sword from ground,

But M4v

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

A gushing fountaine all the chamber fill’d.

He staggred at the blowe, his face grew pale,

And on a couche all feeble downe he fell,

Swounding 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 beatt

For pittie, anguish, and for bitter griefe,

To see him plong’d in extreame wretchednes:

He prai’d us all to haste his lingr’ing death:

But no man willing, each himselfe withdrew.

Then fell he new to crie 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 Ladie. 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, wherin he was impackt.

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

And by strong armes into hir windowe drew.

So pittifull a sight was never sene.

Little and little Antonie was pull’d,

Now breathing death: his beard was all unkempt,

His face and brest all bathed in his bloud.

So hideous yet, and dieng as he was,

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

Held N1r

Held up his hands, and holpe himselfe to raise,

But still with weakenes back his bodie fell.

The miserable ladie with moist eies,

With haire which careles on hir forhead hong,

With brest which blowes had bloudilie benumb’d,

With stooping head, and bodie down-ward bent,

Enlast hir in the corde, and with all force

This life-dead man couragiously uprais’de.

The bloud with paine into hir face did flowe,

Hir sinewes stiff, her selfe did breathles growe.

The people which beneath in flocks beheld,

Assisted her with gesture, speech, desire:

Cri’de and incourag’d her, and in their soules

Did sweate, and labor, no white lesse then shee.

Who never tir’d in labor, held so long

Helpt by hir women, and hir constant heart,

That Antonie was drawne into the tombe,

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

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

To plaints and outcries horrible to heare:

Men, women, childrn, hoary-headed age

Do all pell mell in house and strete 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.

N Now N1v

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 Antonie

Was from his chamber caried to the tombe:

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

And that therby my words may credite gaine.


Ah Gods what cruell happ! poore Antonie,

Alas hast thou this sword so long time borne

Against thy foe,, that in the ende it should

Of thee his Lord the cursed murthr’er be?

O 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 Antonie why spend you teares in vaine?

Why darken you with dole your victorie?

Me seemes your self your glorie do envie.

Enter the towne, give thankes unto the Gods.


I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,

Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,

And unchaste love of this Ægyptian.


But best we sought into the tombe to gett,

Lest shee consume in this amazed case

So much rich treasure, with which happelie

Despaire in death may make hir feed the fire:

Suffring the flames hir 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 holde hir still alive,

Some faire large promises: and let them marke

Whither they may by some fine conning slight

Enter N2r

Enter the tombes.


Let Proculeius goe,

And fede with hope hir soule disconsolate.

Assure hir so, that we may wholie gett

Into our hands hir treasure and hir selfe.

For this of all things most I doe desire

To kepe hir safe untill our going hence:

That by hir presence beautified may be

The glorious triumph Rome prepares for me.

Chorus of Romaine

Shall ever civile bate

gnaw and devour our state?

Shall never we this blade,

Our bloud hath bloudie made,

Lay downe? these armes downe lay

As robes we weare alway?

But as from age to age,

So passe from rage to rage?

Our hands shall we not rest

To bath in our owne brest?

And shall thick in each land

Our wretched trophees stand,

To tell posteritie,

What madd Impietie

Our stonie stomakes ledd

Against the place us bredd?

Then still must heaven view

The plagues that us pursue:

And every where descrie

Heaps of us scattred lie,

N2 Ma- N2v

Making the straunger plaines

Fatt with our bleeding raines,

Proud that on them their grave

So manie legions have.

And with our fleshes still

Neptune has 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 yelds.

But since the rule of Rome,

To one mans hand is come,

Who governes without mate

Hir now united state,

Late jointlie 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 deadlie 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 bayes.

And that his temple dore,

Which bloudie Mars before

Held open, now at last

Olde Janus shall make fast:

And N3r

And rust the sword consume,

And spoild of waving plume,

The useles morien 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 pointes addrest,

Against the Germains brest,

The Parthians fayned flight,

The Biscaines martiall might.

Olde Memorie doth there

Painted on forhead weare

Our Fathers praise: thence torne

Onur triumphes baies have worne:

Therby our matchles Romme

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 angrie at one blowe

May her quite overthrowe.

N3 Act. N3v

Act. 5.

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


O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!

O plaguy love! ô most detested brand!

O wretched joyes! ô beauties miserable!

O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!

O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!

O Antonie by my fault 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 sene?

Alas! of mine the plague and poison I

The crowne have lost my ancestors me left,

This Realme I have to straungers subject made,

And robd my children of their heritage.

Yet this is nought (alas!) unto the price

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

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

With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:

Of you, whome I destroid, 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 breathe! can yet in such annoy,

Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?

O N4r

O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!

O Styx! ô Phlegethon! 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!


Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound

At their weake backs.


Ah Gods what pittie more!


Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.


Never on us, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.


And pointed at with fingers as they go.


Rather a thousand deaths.


Lastly his knife

Some cruell caytive in their bloud embrue.


Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,

By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,

By my soule, and the soule of Antonie

I you beseche, Euphron, of them have care.

Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett

That they fall not into this Tyrants handes.

Rather conduct them where their freezed locks

Black Æthiopes to neighbour Sunne do shewe;

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’rie land and sea: for nought I feare

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

Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:

Good N4v

Good Isis you to place of safetie 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 Princelie race: remember not

So manie brave Kings which have Egipt rul’de

In right descent your ancestors have bene:

That this great Antonie 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 imperiouse 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 hart is clos’de

With pitie and paine, my self with death enclos’de,

My breath doth faile. Farwell for evermore,

Your Sire and me you shall see never more.

Farwell swete care, farwell.


Madame Adieu.


Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde,

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 lott!

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

Half dead she lie with anguish overgone?

Er. O1r


Her face is frozen.


Madame for Gods love

Leave us not thus: bidd you first farwell.

Alas! wepe over Antonie: Let not

His bodie be without due rites entomb’de.


Ah, ah.




Ay me!


How fainte
she is?


My Sisters, holde me up. How wretched I,

How cursed am! and was ther ever one

By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?

Ah, weeping Niobe, although thy hart

Beholdes 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 wrathe

Into a Stone not yet transformed hath.

Phaetons 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 crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.

Die Cleopatra then, no longer stay

From Antonie, who thee at Styx attends:

Goe joine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no more

Without his love within these tombes enclos’d.


Alas! yet let us wepe, lest sodaine death O. From O1v

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 worthilie to waile,

Waile thee Antonie, Antonie my heart?

Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!

Yet have mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drie

By long beweeping my disastred harmes.

Now reason is that from my side they sucke

First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.

Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,

And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.

Moist it, and heate it newe, and never stopp,

All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.


Antonie take our teares: this is the last

Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,

Before we die.


These sacred obsequies

Take Antony, take them in good parte.


O Goddesse thou whom Cyprus doth adore,

Venus of Paphos, bent to worke us harme

For olde Julus broode, if thou take care

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

Antonie did descend, as well as he,

From thine owne Sonne by long enchained line:

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

True Troian bloud, the statelie Romain state.

Antonie, poore Antonie, my deare soule,

Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,

Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,

And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d.

Thy O2r

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.

Antonie by our true loves I thee beseche,

And by our hearts swete sparks have sett on fire,

Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe

Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie:

My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,

And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,

Thy wife, thy frend: heare Antonie, 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, aund 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 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 staie from thee, my heart, this while.

Die will I straight now, now streight will I die,

And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,

Vnder O2v

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 funeralles adorne:

My haire shall serve for thy oblations,

My boiling teares for thy effusions,

Mine eies thy fire: for but of them the flame

(Which burnt thy heart on me enamour’d) came.

Wepe my companiouns, wepe, and from your eies

Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.

Mine can no more, consumed by the coales

Which from my breast, as from a furnace, rise.

Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,

With violent hands teare of your hanging haire;

Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke

(Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe?

I spent in teares, not able more to spende,

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

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

Front seate of honor, face most fierce, most faire!

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

(Oh mischief) comes to choake 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 flowe.