The British Drama: A Collection of the Most Esteemed Tragedies, Comedies ...

Enter ALEXAS.

Art thou there, traitor!-Oh,

Oh, for a little breath, to vent my rage.
Alex. Yes, deserve it, for my ill-timed truth.
Cleo. I would reason

More calmly with you. Did you not o'errule,
And force my plain, direct, and open love,
Into these crooked paths of jealousy?

Now, what's th' event? Octavia is removed;
But Cleopatra banish'd.

Aler. Believe me, Madam, Antony is yours.
His heart was never lost; but started off
To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert;
Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence,
And listening for the sound that calls it back.
Some other, any man, 'tis so advanced,
May perfect this unfinish'd work, which I
(Unhappy only to myself) have left
So easy to his hand.

Cleo. Look well thou do't; else—

Aler. Else, what your silence threatens-Antony

Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret, He stands surveying our Egyptain galleys, Engaged with Cæsar's fleet, now death, or con

quest;

If the first happen, fate acquits my promise,
If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours.

[A distant shout within. Char. Have comfort, Madam: Did you mark that shout? [Second shout nearer. Iras. Hark, they redouble it. Alex. 'Tis from the port. The loudness shows it near. Heavens.

Enter SERAPION.

Cleo. Enough, Serapion: I've heard my doom.

gods:

This needed not, you

When I lost Antony, your work was done.
Where's my lord? How bears he this last blow?
Ser. His fury cannot be expressed by words;
Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen
Full on his foes, and aim'd at Cæsar's galley;
Withheld, he raves on you, cries, he 's betray'd.
Should he now find you-

Alex. Shun him, seek your safety,
Till you can clear your innocence.
Cleo. I'll stay.

Alex. You must not; haste you to the monu-
ment,

While I make speed to Cæsar.
Cleo. Cæsar! No,

I have no business with him.
Alex. I can work him,

To spare your life, and let this madman perish.
Cleo. Base, fawning wretch! wouldst thou bo-

tray him too?

Hence from my sight, I will not hear a traitor;
'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.
Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me;
But haste, each moment's precious.

Ser. Retire; you must not yet see Antony.
He who began this mischief,

'Tis just he tempt the danger: let him clear you.
And, since he offer'd you his servile tongue,
To gain a poor precarious life from Cæsar,
Let him expose that fawning eloquence,
And speak to Antony.

Alex. O Heavens! I dare not :
Good news, kind I meet my certain death.

Say, whence thou cam'st, (though fate is in thy
face,

Which from thy haggard eyes look wildly out,
And threatens ere thou speak'st.)

Ser. I came from Pharos,

From viewing (spare me and imagine it)
Our land's last hope, your navy-
Cleo. Vanquish'd.

Ser. No,

They fought not.

Cleo. Then they fled.

Ser. Nor that. I saw,

With Antony your well appointed fleet

Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high,
And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back.
The well-timed oars,

Now dipp'd from every bark, now smoothly run
To meet the foe, and soon, indeed, they met,
But not as foes. In few we saw their caps
On either side thrown up, the Egyptian galleys,
Received like friends, pass'd through, and fell be-
hind

The Roman rear, and now, they all come for-
ward,

And ride within the port.

Cleo. Šlave, thou deserv'st it.

Not that I fear my lord will I avoid him;
I know him noble: When he banish'd me,
And thought me false, he scorn'd to take my life:
But I'll be justify'd, and then die with him.
Alex. O pity me, and let me follow you.
Cleo. To death, if thou stir hence.

thou canst,

Speak, if

Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save, While mine I prize at this. Come, good Serapion.

[Exeunt CLEO, SER. CHAR. and IRAS. Alex. Oh! that I less could fear to lose this

Vent. The nation is one universal traitor; and To be accused by you; out shut nerself,

their queen

The very spirit and extract of them all.
Ant. Is there yet left

A possibility of aid and valour?

Is there one god unsworn to my destruction?
For, if there be,

Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate
Of such a boy as Cæsar.

Vent. There yet remain

Three legions in the town. The last assault
Lopp'd off the rest. If death be your design,
As I must wish it now, these are sufficient
To make a heap about us of dead foes;
An honest pile for burial.

Ant. They're enough.

We'll not divide our stars; but side by side
Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes
Survey each other's acts.

Vent. Now you shall see I love you. By my
few hours of life,

I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate,
That I would not be Cæsar to outlive you.
When we put off this flesh and mount together,
It shall be shown to all th' ethereal crowd,
Lo, this is he who died with Antony.

Ant. Who knows but we may pierce through all their troops,

And reach my veterans yet? 'Tis worth the tempting.

Enter ALEXAS, trembling.

Vent. See, see, that villain!

See how he has set his count'nance for deceit ;
And promises a lie, before he speaks!
Let me despatch him first.

[Drawing. Ant. Hold; he's not worth your killing. On thy life,

(Which thou may'st keep because I scorn to take it)

No syllable to justify thy queen;
Save thy base tongue its office.

Alex. Sir she's gone,

Where she shall never be molested more
By love or you.

Ant. Fled to her Dolabella!

Die, traitor, I revoke my promise, die.

Within her monument: look'd down and sigh'd While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears Dropp'd, as they had not leave, but stole their parting.

Some undistinguish'd words she inly murmur'd; At last she raised her eyes, and with such looks As dying Lucrece cast

Ant. My heart forbodes

Vent. Go on.

Alex. She snatch'd her poniard,

And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow,
Plunged it within her breast: then turn'd to me;
Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell,
And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith.
More she was saying, but death rush'd betwixt.
She half pronounced your name with her last
breath,

And buried half within her.
Vent. Heaven be praised.

Ant. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love?

And art thou dead?

Oh, those two words! their sound should be divided:

Hadst thou been false, and died: or hadst thou lived,

And hadst been true-But innocence and death! This shows not well above. Then what am I The murderer of this truth, this innocence! Thoughts cannot form themselves in words horrid

As can express my guilt!

Vent. Is't come to this? The gods have been too gracious,

And thus you thank them for't.

Ant. [To ALEX.] Why stay'st thou here? Thou art not worthy to behold what now Becomes a Roman emperor to perform.

[Exit ALEX

Vent. Would she had died a little sooner

[Going to kill him. I was but great for her: my power, my empire,
Were but my merchandise to buy her love;"
And conquer'd kings, my factors. Now she's
dead

Alex. O hold, she is not fled.
Ant. She is. My eyes

Are open to her falsehood. My whole life
Has been a golden dream of love and friendship:
But now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused
From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking,

Let Cæsar take the world.

Vent. Would you be taken?
Ant. Yes, I would be taken;

And all his wealth cast o'er. Ungrateful wo-But as a Roman ought, dead, my Ventidius.

Vent. Choose your death;

For I have seen him in such various shapes,
I care not which I take: I'm only troubled,
The life I bear is worn to such a rag,
'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed,
We threw it from us with a better grace;
That like two lions taken in the toils,

We might at least thrust out our paws and wound

The hunters that enclose us.

Ant. Thou hast loved me,

And fain I would reward thee. I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death

To make thee friends with Cæsar.

Vent. Thank your kindness.

You said I loved you; and, in recompense,

This fatal consequence. My fleet betray'd

You bid me turn a traitor! Did I think
You would have used me thus! that I should die Both you and me.
With a hard thought of you!

Vent. I do indeed;

But, think, 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you; If that may plead my pardon. And, you gods, Forgive me, if you will, for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend.

[Dies. Ant. Farewell! ever, my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me And I'm the lag of honour.-Gone so soon! Is death no more? 'Tis not worth him

My further thought; for death, for ought I know,
Is but to think no more.

Here's to be satisfied. [Falls on his sword.
I've miss'd my heart-O unperforming hand!
Thou never couldst have err'd in a worse time.
[Trampling within.
Some perhaps from Cæsar! I'll mend
My work, ere they can reach me.

[Rises upon his knees.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS.

Cleo Where is my lord? where is he? My fears were prophets! I am come too late!

O that accursed Alexas!

Ant. Art thou living?

[Runs to him.

Or am I dead before I knew, and thou

The first kind ghost that meets me ?
Cleo. How is it with you?

Ant. 'Tis as with a man

Removing in a hurry; all pack'd up,

But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur:

So I come back for thee.

Ant. And Dolabella

Cleo. Scarce esteem'd before he loved; but hated now.

Ant. Enough! my life 's not long enough for

more.

Thou say'st thou wilt come after; I believe thee;
For I can now believe whate'er thou say'st,
That we may part more kindly.

Cleo. I will come;

Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too!
Cæsar shall triumph o'er no part of thee.

Ant. But grieve not, while thou stay'st,
My last disastrous times;

Think we have had a clear and glorious day;
And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm
Just till our close of evening. Ten years love,
And not a moment lost, but all improved,
To th' utmost joys! What ages have we lived!
And now to die each other's! and so dying,
While hand in hand we walk in groves below,
Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about

us,

And all the train be ours.

Cleo. Your words are like the notes of dying

swans,

Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours
For your unkindness, and not one for love?
Ant. No, not a minute-this one kiss-more
worth

Than all I leave to Cæsar

[Dies.

Cleo. O tell me so again! My lord! my lord! speak, if you yet have being! Sigh to me if you cannot speak! or cast One look; do any thing that shows you live. Iras. He's gone too far to hear you. Char. Remember, Madam,

He charged you not to grieve.

Cleo. And I'll obey him.

I have not loved a Roman, not to know
What should become his wife-his wife, my
Charmion!

For 'tis to that high title I aspire;

And now I'll not die less.

Iras. Will you then die?

Cleo. Why shouldst thou make that question? Fly both, and bring the cure of all our ills. Iras. The aspicks, Madam?

Cleo. Must I bid you twice?

[Exeunt CHAR. and IRAS.

'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on

Enter CHAR. and IRAs, with the aspicks, &c.

Cleo. Welcome thou kind deceiver !

[Puts aside the leaves.

Thou best of thieves; who with an easy key,

Cleo. Too long, ye Heavens, you have been Dost open life, and unperceived by us,

cruel to me!

Even steals us from ourselves.

Ser. [Within.] The queen, where is she? The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates.

Cleo. He comes too late t' invade the rights of

death.

Haste, haste, my friend, and rouse the serpent's fury.

[Holds out her arm, and draws it back.

Coward flesh-
Wouldst thou conspire with Cæsar, to betray me,

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

But bring myself, my soul to Antony.

[Shows her arm bloody. Take hence; the work is done. Ser. [Within.] Break ope the door, And guard the traitor well.

[They apply the aspicks. Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins; I 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 eyelids fall, And my dear love is vanish'd in a mist! 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 and Egyptians.

2d. Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havock death has made!

Ser. 'Twas what I fear'd.

See how the lovers lie in state together,
As they were giving law to half mankind.
Th' impression of a smile left in her face,
Shows 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, bless'd 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

THE

CITY WIVES' CONFEDERACY:

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

BY SIR JOHN VANBRUG H.

REMARKS.

THOUGH it is not easy to find scenes better written, or characters more happily drawn than some in this comedy, yet, it is impossible to bestow unqualified praise upon it as a whole. It seems to be a production that lid not put the author to the pains of much reflection; for though it displays great spirit, humour, and vivacity, it does not bear the marks of care: neither does the muse of Vanbrugh wear a very cleanly sock on this occa sion, for he has not scrupled to pay court to the bad taste of the time in which he wrote. He has shown vice without punishing it, and profligacy without reforming it. There is not an honest man, or modest woman in his whole Dramatis Personæ; it is not easy to name that description of criminality which has not a representative in these scenes. Rascals that deserve the gallows, and impures that should be sent to Bridewell, are the company which the spectator must condescend to keep, and whose sentiments the reader must be content to put up with He dips into the lowest ranks, and shows the worst side of human nature. Few dramas can be found so generally satirical; for whilst he professedly lashes the citizens without mercy, he takes every opportunity of hooking in his allusions to the higher orders of society with unsparing asperity.

The city wives and the city husbands are exact duplicates, each of the other. The author, with all his art and contrivance, squeezes little more than two hundred pounds out of the pockets of their husbands; and, in despair to make them better, leaves them so much the worse by how much they are the more confirmed in their iniquity; and when Araminta observes to Clarissa, that "she supposes they are to go on with their dears as they used to do," Clarissa answers, "just in the same track," and then concludes the play with a comforting remark for all intriguing wives-that every thing gets well out of a broil but a husband." With this remark the curtain drops; and the audience, delivered from the company of rogues and whores, may go home to their families, and meditate upon the conversation they have been admitted to.

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The British Drama: A Collection of the Most Esteemed Tragedies ..., Volumen1