And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers:
Here they take life; here they inherit honour,
Grow fix'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs.
Take it, and look upon thy humble servant,
With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy,
That offers with this head, most mighty Cæsar,
What thou wouldst once have given for't, all Egypt.
Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror,
Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee,
Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer:
Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Cæsar,
Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this,
Nor labour'd through no showers of darts and lances,
Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly,
An inward war: He was his grandsire's guest,
Friend to his father, and when he was expell'd
And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand,
And had none left him to restore his honour,
No hope to find a friend in such a misery,
Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune,
Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again:
This was a love to Cæsar.

Sce. Give me hate, gods!

Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then;

If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way!

He was thy son-in-law; there to be tainted

Had been most terrible! Let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. Casar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! See, captains,

The head of godlike Pompey!

Sce. He was basely ruin'd;

But let the gods be griev'd that suffer'd it.
And be you Cæsar.

Cæsar. Oh thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity;

Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ?
What poor fate follow'd thee and pluck'd thee on
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger,
That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness,
Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was?
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets,
And loose lascivious pleasures? to a boy,
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,
No study of thy life to know thy goodness?
And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend,
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee,
In soft relenting tears? Hear me, great Pompey;
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee!
Th' hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory,
My love and mercy.

Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show!
How excellent is sorrow in an enemy!

Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. Caesar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids,

Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose,
Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes,
Are monuments fit for him? No; brood of Nilus,
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven,
No pyramids set off his memories,

But the eternal substance of his greatness,
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial:
Your earth shall now be bless'd to hold a Roman,
Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance.
Sce. If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee:
But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible,
And be right glad of what they seem to weep for;
There are such kind of philosophers. Now do I wonder
How he would lock if Pompey were alive again;
But how he'd set his face.

pense.

You're young and ignorant; that pleads your pardon;
And fear, it may be, more than hate, provok'd you.
Your ministers, I must think, wanted judgment,
And so they err'd: I'm bountiful to think this,
Believe me, most bountiful. Be you most thankful;
That bounty share amongst ye. If I knew what
To send you for a present, king of Egypt,

I mean a head of equal reputation,

And that you lov'd, tho' 'twere your brightest sister's
(But her you hate), I would not be behind you.
Ptol. Hear me, great Cæsar!
Cæsar. I have heard too much;

And study not with smooth shows to invade
My noble mind, as you have done my conquest:
You're poor and open. I must tell you roundly,
That man that could not recompense the benefits,
The great and bounteous services of Pompey,
Can never dote upon the name of Cæsar.
Though I had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin,
I gave you no commission to perform it.
Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty;
And, but I stand environ'd with my victories,
My fortune never failing to befriend me,
My noble strengths, and friends about my person,
I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesy,
Above the pious love you show'd to Pompey.
You've found me merciful in arguing with ye;
Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures,
Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins,
Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears,
You wretched and poor reeds of sun-burnt Egypt,
And now you've found the nature of a conqueror,
That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries,
That where the day gives light, will be himself still;
Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies!
Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier,
Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices,
Make a Sabean bed, and place this phenix
Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues,
And draw another Pompey from his ashes
Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the worthics!
Ptol. We will do all.

Cæsar. You've robb'd him of those tears
His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him,
The virgins of their funeral lamentations;
And that kind earth that thought to cover him
(His country's earth) will cry out 'gainst your cruelty,
And weep unto the ocean for revenge,

Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye!
My grief has stopt the rest! When Pompey liv'd,
He us'd you nobly; now he's dead, use him so. [Exit.

My night, and all your hands have been employ'd
In giving me a spotless offering

To young Amintor's bed, as we are now
For you: pardon, Evadne; would my worth
Were great as yours, or that the king, or he,

Or both thought so; perhaps he found me worthless;
But till he did so, in these ears of mine
(These credulous ears) he pour'd the sweetest words
That art or love could frame.

Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam.

Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew. Erad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. Evad. How is it, madam?

Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear,

Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth;

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

Madam, good night; may no discontent
Grow 'twixt your love and you; but if there do,
Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan,
Teach you an artificial way to grieve,
To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord
No worse than I ; but if you love so well,
Alas! you may displease him; so did I.
This is the last time you shall look on me:
Ladies, farewell; as soon as I am dead,
Come all and watch one night about my hearse;
Bring each a mournful story and a tear
To offer at it when I go to earth:
With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round,
Write on my brow my fortune, let my bier
Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course
The truth of maids and perjuries of men.
Erad. Alas! I pity thee.
Asp. Go and be happy in your lady's love;

[Amintor enters.

[To Amintor.

May all the wrongs that you have done to me
Be utterly forgotten in my death.
I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take
A parting kiss, and will not be denied.

You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep
When I am laid in earth, though you yourself
Can know no pity: thus I wind myself
Into this willow garland, and am prouder
That I was once your love (though now refus'd)
Than to have had another true to me.

The Maid's Tragedy.

And to that destiny have patiently

Laid up my hour to come.

Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite,

Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds? never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them,
And as an east wind leave them all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never

Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses
Like proud seas under us, our good swords now
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore)
Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us;
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning
To blast whole armies more!

Arc. No, Palamon,

Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are,
And here the graces of our youths must wither
Like a too timely spring; here age must find us,
And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried;
The sweet embraces of a loving wife

Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us,
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,
'Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.'
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and nature. This is all our world:
We shall know nothing here but one another;
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes.
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it :
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds
That shook the aged forest with their echoes,
No more now must we halloo, no more shake
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,
Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses
(The food and nourishment of noble minds)
In us two here shall perish: we shall die
(Which is the curse of honour) lastly
Children of grief and ignorance.

'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twinn'd together; 'tis most true, two souls
Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink; they must not; say they could,
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.
Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place
That all men hate so much?

Pal. How, gentle cousin?

Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary,

To keep us from corruption of worse men!
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour,

That liberty and common conversation,

The poison of pure spirits, might (like women)
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be, but our imaginations

May make it ours? And here being thus together,

We are an endless mine to one another;

We are one another's wife, ever begetting

New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaint

ance;

We are, in one another, families;

I am your heir, and you are mine. This place

Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor

Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience, We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty,

A wife might part us lawfully, or business;
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men
Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods: a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.

Pal. You have made me

(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity: what a misery

It is to live abroad, and everywhere!

'Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity,

I see through now; and am sufficient
To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.

The Two Noble Kinsmen.

[Disinterestedness of Biancha.]
(From the Fair Maid of the Inn.')
Enter CESARIO and a SERVANT.

Cesa. Let any friend have entrance.
Serv. Sir, a' shall.

Cesa. Any; except none.

Serv. We know your mind, sir.

[Exit.

Cesa. Pleasures admit no bounds. I'm pitch'd so high, To such a growth of full prosperities, That to conceal my fortunes were an injury To gratefulness, and those more liberal favours By whom my glories prosper. He that flows In gracious and swoln tides of blest abundance, Yet will be ignorant of his own fortunes, Deserves to live contemn'd, and die forgotten: The harvest of my hopes is now already Ripen'd and gather'd; I can fatten youth With choice of plenty, and supplies of comforts; My fate springs in my own hand, and I'll use it. Enter two SERVANTS, and BIANCHA.

1st. Serv. 'Tis my place.

2d. Serv. Yours? Here, fair one; I'll acquaint My lord.

1st. Serv. He's here; go to him boldly.

2d. Serv. Please you

To let him understand how readily

I waited on your errand!

1st. Serv. Saucy fellow!

You must excuse his breeding.

Cesa. What's the matter?

Biancha? my Biancha?-To your offices!

[Exeunt Serv.

This visit, sweet, from thee, my pretty dear,
By how much more 'twas unexpected, comes
So much the more timely: witness this free welcome,
Whate'er occasion led thee!

Bian. You may guess, sir;

Yet, indeed, 'tis a rare one.

Cesa. Prithee, speak it,

My honest virtuous maid.

Bian. Sir, I have heard

Of your misfortunes; and I cannot tell you
Whether I have more cause of joy or

To know they are a truth.

Cesa. What truth, Biancha?

Misfortunes?-how ?-wherein ?

Bian. You are disclaim'd

sadness,

For being the lord Alberto's son, and publicly Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is: It cannot choose but grieve you.

Cesa. Grieve me? Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Is this all?

Bian. This all?

Cesa. Thou art sorry for't,

I warrant thee; alas, good soul, Biancha!

That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness; My happiness, Biancha!

Bian. If you love me,

It may prove mine too.

Cesa. May it? I will love thee,

My good, good maid, if that can make thee happy, Better and better love thec.

Bian. Without breach, then,

Of modesty, I come to claim the interest
Your protestations, both by vows and letters,
Have made me owner of: from the first hour

I saw you, I confess I wish'd I had been,

Or not so much below your rank and greatness,
Or not so much above those humble flames
That should have warm'd my bosom with a temperate
Equality of desires in equal fortunes.

Still, as you utter'd language of affection,
I courted time to pass more slowly on,

That I might turn more fool to lend attention
To what I durst not credit, nor yet hope for;
Yet still as more I heard, I wish'd to hear more.
Cesa. Didst thou in troth, wench?

Bian. Willingly betray'd

Myself to hopeless bondage.

Cesa. A good girl!

I thought I should not miss, whate'er thy answer was.
Bian. But as I am a maid, sir, (and i' faith
You may believe me, for I am a maid),
So dearly respected both your fame

And quality, that I would first have perish'd
In my sick thoughts, than ere have given consent
To have undone your fortunes, by inviting
A marriage with so mean a one as I am:

I should have died sure, and no creature known
The sickness that had kill'd me.

Cesa. Anything.