All For Love Part 1

All For Love.

by John Dryden.

PREFACE.

The death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Ca.s.sius would give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our pa.s.sions are, or ought to be, within our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered, that the compa.s.sion she moved to herself and children was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it pa.s.s, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only pa.s.sed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their s.e.x. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that Cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. They betray themselves who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet.

Honest Montaigne goes yet further: Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses. Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement a faire: Nous n'osons appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer a toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit. My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come.

Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the civilest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners make you sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it gla.s.s by gla.s.s. But while they affect to s.h.i.+ne in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolytus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics I am sure will commend him for it. But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. But take Hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and I suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. In the meantime we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the Hippolytus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolyte. I should not have troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our Chedreux critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the mult.i.tude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry-- Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna.

And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has pa.s.sed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill t.i.tle to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty.

Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. It was known beforehand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. In the meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions. They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. Maecenas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far gone in poetry, which Seneca a.s.sures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of Maecenas, but little of his liberality. They are for prosecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. Some of their little zanies yet go further; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself, as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the buffoon; ------- Demetri, teque, Tigelli, Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggerel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, misapply his censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry-- ------- Saxum antiquum, ingens,-- Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis.

But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against enemies-- Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis. Tum lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus, Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum.

For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friends.h.i.+p will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue-- Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus; et isti Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum.

But he would never allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as Juvenal explains it-- ------- Canibus pigris, scabieque vestusta Laevibus, et siccae lambentibus ora lucernae, Nomen erit, Pardus, Tigris, Leo; si quid adhuc est Quod fremit in terris violentius.

Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress-- Nigra est, immunda et foetida ; muta pudens est, etc.

But to drive it ad Aethiopem cygnum is not to be endured. I leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other side, and without further considering him, than I have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquiant the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr. Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry-- ------- Vos exemplaria Graeca Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compa.s.s. I could give an instance in the Oedipus Tyrannus, which was the masterpiece of Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have disenc.u.mbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this kind.

PROLOGUE.

What flocks of critics hover here to-day, As vultures wait on armies for their prey, All gaping for the carcase of a play! With croaking notes they bode some dire event, And follow dying poets by the scent. Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time: He fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;-- And brings a tale which often has been told; As sad as Dido's; and almost as old. His hero, whom you wits his bully call, Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all; He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; Weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind. In short, a pattern, and companion fit, For all the keeping Tonies of the pit. I could name more: a wife, and mistress too; Both (to be plain) too good for most of you: The wife well-natured, and the mistress true. Now, poets, if your fame has been his care, Allow him all the candour you can spare. A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day; Like Hectors in at every petty fray. Let those find fault whose wit's so very small, They've need to show that they can think at all; Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below. Fops may have leave to level all they can; As pigmies would be glad to lop a man. Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, We scarce could know they live, but that they bite. But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, For change, become their next poor tenant's guests; Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, And s.n.a.t.c.h the homely rasher from the coals: So you, retiring from much better cheer, For once, may venture to do penance here. And since that plenteous autumn now is past, Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.

ALL FOR LOVE or THE WORLD WELL LOST.

A TRAGEDY.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MARK ANTONY. VENTIDIUS, his General. DOLABELLA, his Friend. ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch. SERAPION, Priest of Isis. MYRIS, another Priest. Servants to Antony.

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt. OCTAVIA, Antony's Wife. CHARMION, Cleopatra's Maid. IRAS, Cleopatra's Maid. Antony's two little Daughters.

SCENE.--Alexandria.

Act I.

Scene I.--The Temple of Isis Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis SERAPION. Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae panted on the sh.o.r.e; Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails, Lay las.h.i.+ng the departing waves: hard by them, Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.

Enter ALEXAS behind them MYRIS. Avert these omens, Heaven!

SERAPION. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. >From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene.

ALEXAS. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [Showing himself.] To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?

SERAPION. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what I uttered was most true.

ALEXAS. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury.

SERAPION. I know my duty: This goes no further.

ALEXAS. 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm Just breaking on our heads.

SERAPION. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.

MYRIS. Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a n.o.ble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost?

ALEXAS. He thinks 'tis past recovery.

SERAPION. Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege.

ALEXAS. Oh, there's the wonder. Maecenas and Agrippa, who can most With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

SERAPION. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis' temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black despair.

ALEXAS. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love.

SERAPION. If he be vanquished, Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat), And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus, Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

ALEXAS. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature, Who lord it o'er mankind, rhould perish,--perish, Each by the other's sword; But, since our will Is lamely followed by our power, we must Depend on one; with him to rise or fall.

SERAPION. How stands the queen affected?

ALEXAS. Oh, she dotes, She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man, And winds herself about his mighty ruins; Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, And makes me use all means to keep him here. Whom I could wish divided from her arms, Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know The state of things; no more of your ill omens And black prognostics; labour to confirm The people's hearts.

Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S SERAPION. These Romans will o'erhear us. But who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanour, and erected look, He's of no vulgar note.

ALEXAS. Oh, 'tis Ventidius, Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East, Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. When Antony returned from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

SERAPION. You seem to know him well.

ALEXAS. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: A mortal foe was to us, and Egypt. But,--let me witness to the worth I hate,-- A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave, He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: In short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes I know not what of ill To our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better; And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. [They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front.]

VENTIDIUS. Not see him; say you? I say, I must, and will.

GENTLEMAN. He has commanded, On pain of death, none should approach his presence.

VENTIDIUS. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, Give him new life.

GENTLEMAN. He sees not Cleopatra.

VENTIDIUS. Would he had never seen her!

GENTLEMAN. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of anything, but thought; or if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pa.s.s, Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries, "Take all, The world's not worth my care."

VENTIDIUS. Just, just his nature. Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, And bounds into a vice, that bears him far >From his first course, and plunges him in ills: But, when his danger makes him find his faults, Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, Judging himself with malice to himself, And not forgiving what as man he did, Because his other parts are more than man.-- He must not thus be lost. [ALEXAS and the Priests come forward.]

ALEXAS. You have your full instructions, now advance, Proclaim your orders loudly.

SERAPION. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's. Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! Be this the general voice sent up to heaven, And every public place repeat this echo.

VENTIDIUS. Fine pageantry! [Aside.]

SERAPION. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the G.o.ds to join with you in gladness.

VENTIDIUS. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of Antony, who revel When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame, You Romans, your great grandsires' images, For fear their souls should animate their marbles, To blush at their degenerate progeny.

ALEXAS. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony, Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven Laboured for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his...o...b.. to watch that hour And shed his better influence. Her own birthday Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, That pa.s.sed obscurely by.

VENTIDIUS. Would it had slept, Divided far from his; till some remote And future age had called it out, to ruin Some other prince, not him!

ALEXAS. Your emperor, Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

VENTIDIUS. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest! He knows him not his executioner. Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love, Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, And made perdition pleasing: She has left him The blank of what he was. I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him. Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus altered from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, And crampt within a corner of the world? O Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's G.o.d! Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, As bounty were thy being! rough in battle, As the first Romans when they went to war; Yet after victory more pitiful Than all their praying virgins left at home!

ALEXAS. Would you could add, to those more s.h.i.+ning virtues, His truth to her who loves him.

VENTIDIUS. Would I could not! But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee! Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets, You dare not fight for Antony; go pray And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.]

Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY.

2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other.]

VENTIDIUS. Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: The rest I'll venture. [Withdraws.]

Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks ANTONY. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, 'Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar?

VENTIDIUS. [aside.] On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

ANTONY. Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age.

VENTIDIUS. How sorrow shakes him! [Aside.] So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, And on the ground extends the n.o.ble ruin. [ANTONY having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.

ANTONY. Give me some music, look that it be sad. I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell, And burst myself with sighing.-- [Soft music.] 'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it; My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, Hang o'er my h.o.a.ry face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot.

VENTIDIUS. Methinks I fancy Myself there too.

ANTONY. The herd come jumping by me, And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [Soft music again.]

VENTIDIUS. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [Stands before him.]

ANTONY. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius?

VENTIDIUS. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last.

ANTONY. I'm angry.

VENTIDIUS. So am I.

ANTONY. I would be private: leave me.

VENTIDIUS. Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you.

ANTONY. Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

VENTIDIUS. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven: If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin: You're all that's good, and G.o.d-like.

ANTONY. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then?

VENTIDIUS. 'Twas too presuming To say I would not; but I dare not leave you: And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

ANTONY. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much.

VENTIDIUS. Look, emperor, this is no common dew. [Weeping.] I have not wept this forty years; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness.

ANTONY. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame, That caused them, full before me.

VENTIDIUS. I'll do my best.

ANTONY. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine.--Nay, father!

VENTIDIUS. Emperor.

ANTONY. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory; The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so; but never more Shall that sound reach my ears.

VENTIDIUS. I warrant you.

ANTONY. Actium, Actium! Oh!-- VENTIDIUS. It sits too near you.

ANTONY. Here, here it lies a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams.-- VENTIDIUS. Out with it; give it vent.

ANTONY. Urge not my shame. I lost a battle,-- VENTIDIUS. So has Julius done.