by John Dryden
Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,
Allow him all the candour you can spare. 20
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; 25
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. 30
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 snatch the homely rasher from the coals:
So you, retiring from much better cheer, 35
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. 40
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
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,
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, 5
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, 10
It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:
Here monstrous phocæ panted on the shore;
Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails,
Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them,
Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, 15
Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.
Enter ALEXAS behind them
Myr. Avert these omens, Heaven!
Serap. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one,
In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, 20
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. 25
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, 30
My shaking knees against each other knocked;
On the cold pavement down I fell entranced,
And so unfinished left the horrid scene.
Alex. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [Showing himself.
To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, 35
And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?
Serap. My lord, I saw you not,
Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what
I uttered was most true.
Alex. A foolish dream, 40
Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,
And holy luxury.
Serap. I know my duty:
This goes no further.
Alex. ’Tis not fit it should; 45
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.
Serap. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; 50
But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.
Myr. Why then does Antony dream out his hours,
And tempts not fortune for a noble day,
Which might redeem what Actium lost?
Alex. He thinks ’tis past recovery. 55
Serap. Yet the foe
Seems not to press the siege.
Alex. Oh, there’s the wonder.
Mæcenas and Agrippa, who can most
With Cæsar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, 60
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.
Serap. ’Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, 65
Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra;
But here, in Isis’ temple, lives retired,
And makes his heart a prey to black despair.
Alex. ’Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence
To cure his mind of love. 70
Serap. 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 75
Rivalled proud Rome (dominion’s other seat),
And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,
Could fix an equal foot of empire here.
Alex. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature,
Who lord it o’er mankind, should perish, — perish 80
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.
Serap. How stands the queen affected?
Alex. Oh, she dotes, 85
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 — 90
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 95
And black prognostics; labour to confirm
The people’s hearts.
Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY’S
Serap. These Romans will o’erhear us.
But who’s that stranger? By his warlike port, 100
His fierce demeanour, and erected look,
He’s of no vulgar note.
Alex. Oh, ’tis Ventidius,
Our emperor’s great lieutenant in the East,
Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. 105
When Antony returned from Syria last,
He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.
Serap. You seem to know him well.
Alex. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first,
When Cleopatra there met Antony: 110
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 115
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; 120
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.
Vent. Not see him; say you?
I say, I must, and will.
Gent. He has commanded, 125
On pain of death, none should approach his presence.
Vent. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits,
Give him new life.
Gent. He sees not Cleopatra.
Vent. Would he had never seen her! 130
Gent. 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 pass,
Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud 135
The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth
Into a scornful smile, and cries, “Take all,
The world’s not worth my care.”
Vent. Just, just his nature.
Virtue’s his path; but sometimes ’tis too narrow 140
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, 145
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. 150
Alex. You have your full instructions, now advance,
Proclaim your orders loudly.
Serap. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen’s command.
Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;
To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, 155
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.
Vent. Fine pageantry! [Aside. 160
Serap. 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, 165
And call the gods to join with you in gladness.
Vent. 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, 170
For fear their souls should animate their marbles,
To blush at their degenerate progeny.
Alex. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony,
Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven
Laboured for him, when each propitious star 175
Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour
And shed his better influence. Her own birthday
Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate,
That passed obscurely by.
Vent. Would it had slept, 180
Divided far from his; till some remote
And future age had called it out, to ruin
Some other prince, not him!
Alex. Your emperor,
Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than 185
To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.
Vent. 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, 190
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, 195
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! 200
Bounteous as nature; next to nature’s God!
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 205
Than all their praying virgins left at home!
Alex. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues,
His truth to her who loves him.
Vent. Would I could not!
But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee! 210
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, 215
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. 220
1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other.
Vent. 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 225
Ant. 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, 230
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward,
To be trod out by Cæsar?
Vent. [aside]. On my soul,
’Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!
Ant. Count thy gains. 235
Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this?
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.
Vent. How sorrow shakes him! [Aside.
So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, 240
And on the ground extends the noble 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, 245
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 Cæsar; 250
Cæsar 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.
Ant. Give me some music, look that it be sad.
I’ll soothe my melanc
holy, till I swell, 255
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, 260
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 hoary face; a murm’ring brook 265
Runs at my foot.
Vent. Methinks I fancy
Myself there too.
Ant. The herd come jumping by me,
And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, 270
And take me for their fellow-citizen.
More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [Soft music again.
Vent. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [Stands before him.
Ant. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius?
Vent. Are you Antony? 275
I’m liker what I was, than you to him
I left you last.
Ant. I’m angry.
Vent. So am I.
Ant. I would be private: leave me. 280
Vent. Sir, I love you,
And therefore will not leave you.
Ant. Will not leave me!
Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?
Vent. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven: 285
If I said more, I think ‘twere scare a sin:
You’re all that’s good, and god-like.
Ant. All that’s wretched.
You will not leave me then?
Vent. ’Twas too presuming 290
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.
Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; 295
And, if a foe, too much.
Vent. 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. 300
Ant. 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. 305
Vent. I’ll do my best.
Ant. 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!
Vent. Emperor. 310
Ant. Emperor! Why, that’s the style of victory;
