Diſcourſe of Life (continued 2)

We must with bloud marke this our victorie,

For iust example to all memorie.

Murther we must, vntill not one we leaue,

Which may hereafter vs of rest bereaue.

Ag. Marke it with murthers? who of that can like?

Cæ. Murthers must vse, who doth assurance seeke.

Ag. Assurance call you enemies to make?

Cæs. I make no such, but such away I take.

Ag. Nothing so much as rigour doth displease.

Cæs. Nothing so much doth make me liue at ease.

Ag. What ease to him that feared is of all?

Cæ. Feared to be, and see his foes to fall.

Ag. Commonly feare doth brede and nourish hate.

Cæ. Hate without pow’r comes comonly too late.

Ag. A feared Prince hath oft his death desir’d.

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

Ag. No guard so sure, no forte so strong doth proue,

No such defence, as is the peoples loue.

Cæs. Nought more vnsure more weak, more like the winde,

Then Peoples fauor still to chaunge enclinde.

Ag. Good Gods! what loue to gracious Prince men beare!

Cæs. What honor to the Prince that is seuere!

Ag. Nought more diuine then is Benignitie.

Cæ. Nought likes the Gods as doth Seueritie.

Ag. Gods all forgiue. Cæ. On faults they paines do laie.

Ag. And giue their goods. Cæ. Oft times they take away.

Ag. They wreake them not, ô Cæsar, at each time

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

Neither must you (beleue, I humblie praie)

Your victorie with crueltie defile.

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

But to the good of all men mildlie vs’d,

And they be thank’d: that hauing giu’n you grace

To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie masse,

They may hence-forward hold it still in rest,

All scattred power vnited in one brest.

Cæ. But what is he, that breathles comes so fast,

Approaching vs, and going in such hast?

Ag. He semes affraid: and vnder his arme I

(But much I erre) a bloudie sworde espie.

Cæs. I long to vnderstand what it may be.

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

Dirce. What good God now my voice will reenforce,

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

To waues of sea, which dash vpon the shore,

To earth, to heau’n, the woefull newes I bring?

Ag. What sodaine chaunce thee towards vs hath brought?

Dir. A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau’ns!

O Gods too pittiles! Cæs. What monstrous happ

Wilt thou recount? Dir. Alas too hard mishapp!

When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld,

My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering 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.

Cæs. Alas my heart doth cleaue, 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 liuing light forgoe.

Dir. When Antonie no hope remaining saw

How warre he might, or how agreement make,

Saw him betraid by all his men of warre

In euery 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 vntrue and traytresse, as who fought

To yeld him vp 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 women hir the most vnhappie call’d,

Who by hir loue, hir woefull loue, had lost

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

Who while he was, was all hir woes support.

But that she faultles was she did inuoke

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

Then sent him worde, she was no more aliue,

But lay inclosed dead within hir Tombe.

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

And crost his armes, then thus began to mone.

Cæs. Poore hopeles man! Dir. 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 liue?

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

His armor he vnlaste, 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 vs conioyne:

I grieue, 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 vp the bloudie sword from ground,

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 reuiu’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 vs all to haste his lingr’ing death:

But no man willing, each himselfe withdrew.

Then fell he new to crie and vexe himselfe,

Vntill 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 euen rapt with Ioy

Knowing she liu’d, prai’d vs him to conuey

Vnto his Ladie. Then vpon our armes

We bare him to the Tombe, but entred not.

For she, who feared captiue 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 neuer sene.

Little and little Antonie was pull’d,

Now breathing death: his beard was all vnkempt,

His face and brest all bathed in his bloud.

So hideous yet, and dieng as he was,

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

Held vp his hands, and holpe himself 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 vprais’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 neuer 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, children, 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 euer 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 riuers stream’d;

That sonne his sire saw in his bosome slaine,

The sire his sonne: the husband reft of breath

In his wiues armes, who furious runnes to death.

Now my brest wounded with their piteouse plaints

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

Which I tooke vp 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.

Cæs. 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 haue ended, brothers, frends,

Companions, coozens, equalls in estate:

And must it now to kill thee be my fate?

Ag. Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?

For Antonie why spend you teares in vaine?

Why darken you with dole your victorie?

Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie.

Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the Gods.

Cæs. I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament,

Although not I, but his owne pride the cause,

And vnchaste loue of this Ægyptian.

Agr.

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 Iewells to deface,

You to defraud, hir funerall to grace.

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

With some deuise so holde hir still aliue,

Some faire large promises: and let them marke

Whither they may by some fine conning slight

Enter the tombes. Cæsar. 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 vntill our going hence:

That by hir presence beautified may be

The glorious triumph Rome prepares for me.

Chorus of Romaine Souldiors.

Shall euer ciuile hate

gnaw and deuour our state?

Shall neuer we this blade,

Our bloud hath bloudie made,

Lay downe? these armes downe lay

As robes we weare alway?

But as from age to age,

So passe from rage to rage?

Our hands shall we not rest

To bath in our owne brest?

And shall thick in each land

Our wretched trophees stand,

To tell posteritie,

What madd Impietie

Our stonie stomakes ledd

Against the place vs bredd?

Then still must heauen view

The plagues that vs pursue:

And euery where descrie

Heaps of vs scattred lie,

Making the straunger plaines

Fatt with our bleeding raines,

Proud that on them their graue

So manie legions haue.

And with our fleshes still

Neptune his fishes fill

And dronke with bloud from blue

The sea take blushing hue:

As iuice 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 gouernes without mate

Hir now vnited state,

Late iointlie rulde by three

Enuieng mutuallie,

Whose triple yoke much woe

On Latines necks did throwe:

I hope the cause of iarre,

And of this bloudie warre,

And deadlie discord gone

By what we last haue done:

Our banks shall cherish now

The branchie pale-hew’d bow

Of Oliue, Pallas praise,

In stede of barraine bayes.

And that his temple dore,

Which bloudie Mars before

Held open, now at last

Olde Ianus shall make fast:

And rust the sword consume,

And spoild of wauing plume,

The vseles morion shall

On crooke hang by the wall.

At least if warre returne

It shall not here soiourne,

To kill vs with those armes

Were forg’d for others harmes:

But haue their pointes addrest,

Against the Germaines brest,

The Parthians fayned flight,

The Biscaines martiall might.

Olde Memorie doth there

Painted on forhead weare

Our Fathers praise: thence torne

Our triumphes baies haue worne:

Therby our matchles Rome

Whilome of Shepeheards come

Rais’d to this greatnes stands,

The Queene of forraine lands.

Which now euen seemes to face

The heau’ns, her glories place:

Nought resting vnder Skies

That dares affront her eies.

So that she needes but feare

The weapons Ioue doth beare,

Who angrie at one blowe

May her quite ouerthrowe.

Act. 5.

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

Cleop.

O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!

O plaguy loue! ô most detested brand!

O wretched ioyes! ô beauties miserable!

O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!

O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!

O Antonie by my fault buriable!

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

Of all the Gods at once on vs is falne.

Vnhappie Queene! ô would I in this world

The wandring light of day had neuer sene?

Alas! of mine the plague and poison I

The crowne haue lost my ancestors me left,

This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made,

And robd my children of their heritage.

Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the price

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

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

With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:

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

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

O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue,

Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe?

Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy,

Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?

O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!

O Styx! ô Phlegethon! you brookes of hell!

O Impes of Night! Euph. Liue for your childrens sake:

Let not your death of kingdome them depriue.

Alas what shall they do? who will haue care?

Who will preserue this royall race of yours?

Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I see

These little soules to seruile bondage falne,

And borne in triumph. Cl. Ah most miserable!

Euph. Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound

At their weake backs. Cl. Ah Gods what pittie more!

Eph. Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend.

Cl. Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.

Euph. And pointed at with fingers as they go.

Cl. Rather a thousand deaths. Euph. Lastly his knife

Some cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.

Cl. Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,

By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,

By my soule, and the soule of Antonie

I you beseche, Euphron, of them haue care.

Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett

That they fall not into this Tyrants handes.

Rather conduct them where their freezed locks

Black Æthiopes to neighbour Sunne do shewe;

On wauie Ocean at the waters will;

On barraine cliffes of snowie Caucasus;

To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;

And rather, rather vnto euery coaste,

To eu’rie land and sea: for nought I feare

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

Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:

Good Isis you to place of safetie guide,

Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leade

In free estate deuoid of seruile dread.

Remember not, my children, you were borne

Of such a Princelie race: remember not

So manie braue Kings which haue Egipt rul’de

In right descent your ancestors haue 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 euermore,

Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more.

Farwell swete care, farwell. Chil. Madame Adieu.

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

I can no more, I die. Eras. Madame, alas!

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

Eup. Come children. Chil. We come. Eup. Follow we our chaunce.

The Gods shall guide vs. Char. O too cruell lott!

O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,

What shall we do, alas! if murthring darte

Of death arriue while that in slumbring swound

Half dead she lie with anguish ouergone?

Er. Her face is frozen. Ch. Madame for Gods loue

Leaue vs not thus: bidd vs yet first farwell.

Alas! wepe ouer Antonie: Let not

His bodie be without due rites entomb’de.

Cl. Ah, ah. Char. Madame. Cle. Ay me! Cl. How fainte she is?

Cl. My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I,

How cursed am! and was ther euer one

By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?

Ah, weeping Niobe, although thy hart

Beholdes itselfe enwrap’d in causefull woe

For thy dead children, that a senceless rocke

With griefe become, on Sipylus thou stand’st

In endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feele

The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.

Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost,

And lost their Father, more then them I waile,

Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wrathe

Into a Stone not yet transformed hath.

Phaetons sisters, daughters of the Sunne,

Which waile your brother falne into the streames

Of stately Po: the Gods vpon the bankes

Your bodies to banke-louing Alders turn’d.

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

And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe,

Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende

(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.

Die Cleopatra then, no longer stay

From Antonie, who thee at Styx attends:

Goe ioine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no more

Without his loue within these tombes enclos’d.

Eras. Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine death

From him our teares, and those last duties take

Vnto his tombe we owe. Ch. Ah let vs wepe

While moisture lasts, then die before his feete.

Cl. who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares

My boiling anguish worthilie to waile,

Waile thee Antonie, Antonie my heart?

Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!

Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drie

By long beweeping my disastred harmes.

Now reason is that from my side they sucke

First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.

Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,

And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.

Moist it, and heate it newe, and neuer stopp,

All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.

Cha. Antonie take our teares: this is the last

Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,

Before we die. Er. These sacred obsequies

Take Antony, and take them in good parte.

Cl. O Goddesse thou whom Cyprus doth adore,

Venus of Paphos, bent to worke vs harme

For olde Iulus broode, if thou take care

Of Cæsar, why of vs tak’st thou no care?

Antonie did descend, as well as he,

From thine own Sonne by long enchained line:

And might haue 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 eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue,

Which yet for tents to warlike Mars did serue,

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

Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.

Antonie by our true loues I thee beseche,

And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire,

Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe

Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie:

My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,

And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,

Thy wife, thy frend: heare Antonie, ô heare

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

Liued thus long, the winged race of yeares

Ended I haue as Destinie decreed,

Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken iust reuenge

Of him who me both hated and despisde.

Happie, alas too happie! if of Rome

Only the fleete had hither neuer come.

And now of me an Image great shall goe

Vnder the earth to bury there my woe.

What say I? where am I? ô Cleopatra,

Poore Cleopatra, griefe thy reason reaues.

No, no, most happie in this happles case,

To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:

My bodie ioynde with thine, my mouth with thine,

My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes haue dried:

To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest,

And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest.

The sharpest torment in my heart I feele

Is that I staie from thee, my heart, this while.

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

And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,

Vnder the Cypres trees thou haunt’st alone,

Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone.

But yet I stay, and yet thee ouerliue,

That ere I die due rites I may thee giue.

A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,

With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne:

My haire shall serue for thy oblations,

My boiling teares for thy effusions,

Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame

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

Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eies

Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.

Mine can no more, consumed by the coales

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

Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,

With violent hands teare of your hanging haire,

Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke

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

I spent in teares, not able more to spende,

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

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

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

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

(Oh mischief) comes to choake vp vitall breath.

A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more

Let you my mouth for honors farewell giue:

That in this office weake my limmes may growe,

Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flowe.

At Ramsburie. 26. of Nouember.

1590.

Discourse

Antonius