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 Cæſar) 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 Cæſars 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 giv’ſt 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 Cæſar naked of defence.

Which while I beare let Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar, 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,

Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar may it thanke,

Cauſing that Antony one army loſt

The other wholy did to Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar.


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 Cæſar, 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 Cæſars 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 Cæſar, 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 Cæſar 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 Cæſar, 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

Cæſar 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.


Cæſar, 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 Cæſars 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 weare.

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 Cæſar, 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:

Cæſar 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 Cæſar 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.

Cæſar. 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 Cæſar 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 winde,

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 Cæſar, 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 Souldiors.

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 chaunce.

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 Cæſar, 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.