Char. To what end

These ensigns of your pomp and royalty?

Cleo. Dull, that thou art! why, 'tis to meet my love;

As when I sare him first, on Cydnos' bank,

All sparkling, like a goddess; so adorn'd,
I'll find him once again; my second spousals
Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,
And dress the bride of Antony.

Char. 'Tis done.

Cleo. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place; For I must conquer Cæsar too, like him,

And win my share of the world.-Hail, you dear relicks

Of my immortal love!

O let no impious hand remove you hence;
But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give

His death that peace, which it denied his life.-
Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit the aspick lies.
Cleo. Welcome, thou kind deceiver!

[Putting aside the leaves.
Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key,
Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,
Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so
Death's dreadful office, better than himself;
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,
That death stands by, deceived by his own image,
And thinks himself but sleep.

Serap. The queen, where is she?

The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates.

[Within.

Cleo. He comes too late to invade the rights of

death.

Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm, and draws it back.

Coward flesh,

Would'st thou conspire with Cæsar to betray me,

As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him,

But bring myself, my soul, to Antony.

[Turns aside, and then shews her arm bloody.

Take hence; the work is done.

Serap. Break ope the door,

And guard the traitor well.
Char. The next is ours.

Iras. Now, Charmion, to be worthy

Of our great queen and mistress.

I

[Within.

[They apply the aspicks. Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins : go with such a will to find my lord,

That we shall quickly meet.

A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head: My eye-lids fall, And my dear love is vanish'd in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast!-Cæsar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies. [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.

Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians.

Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havock death has made!

Serap. "Twas what I fear'd.— Charmion, is this well done?

Char. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last Of her great race: I follow her. [Sinks down; dies. Alex. "Tis true,

She has done well: Much better thus to die,

Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

Serap. See, how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shews she died pleased with him for whom she lived,

And went to charm him in another world.
Cæsar's just entering: grief has now no leisure.—
Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,

To grace the imperial triumph.-Sleep, blest pair,
Secure from human chance, long ages out,
While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb;
And fame to late posterity shall tell,

No lovers lived so great, or died so well.

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.

We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but swears a-foot :
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can ;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink and purple best become his face.
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.
He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar's power the men's ambition move,
But grace you him, who lost the world for love!
Yet if some antiquated lady say,

The last age is not copied in his play;

Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge,
Which only has the wrinkles of a judge!

Let not the young and beauteous join with those;
For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,
Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;
'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

END OF THE FIFTH VOLUME.

EDINBURGH:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.