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I have miss'd my heart-Oh, unperforming hand! | And now to die each other's! and so dying,
Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time.
My fortune jades me to the last; and death,
Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait
For my admittance--- [Trampling within.

Some, perhaps, from Cæsar!

If he should find me living, and suspect That I play'd booty with my life! I'll mend My work ere they can reach me.

[Rises upon his knees.

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Or am I dead before I knew, and thou

The first kind ghost that meets me?

Cleo. Help me seat him!

Send quickly, send for help!

[They place him in a chair.

Ant. I am answered: We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra ! I'll make the most I can of life, to stay

A moment more with thee:

Cleo. How is it with you?
Ant. 'Tis, as with a man
Removing in a hurry; all packed up
But one dear jewel, that his haste forgot,
And he for that returns upon the spur;
So I come back for thee.

Cleo. Too long, ye heavens! you have been
cruel to me!

Now shew your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life!

Ant. It will not be, my love!

I keep my soul by force.
Say but thou art not false !

Cleo. 'Tis now too late

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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.-

Cleo. Oh, tell me so again,

[Dies.

And take ten thousand kisses for that word!-
My lord! my lord! speak, if you yet have being!
Sign to me if you cannot speak! or cast
One look! do any thing, that shows you live!
Iras. He is gone too far to hear you,
And this, you see, a lump of senseless clay,
The leavings of a soul.

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. Let dull Octavia
Survive, to mourn him dead: my nobler fate
Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong
For Roman laws to break.

Iras. Will you then die!

Cleo. Why shouldst thou make that question? Iras. Cæsar is most merciful.

Cleo. Let him be so

To those, that want his mercy: My poor lord
Made no such covenant with him to spare me,
When he was dead. Yield me to Cæsar's pride!
What? to be led in triumph through the streets,
A spectacle to base plebeian eyes,

While some dejected friend of Antony's,
Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters
A secret curse on her, who ruined him!
I'll none of that.

Char. Whatever you resolve,
I'll follow, even to death.

Iras. I only feared

For you, but more should fear to live without

you.

Cleo. Why, now 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends,

Dispatch! ere this the town's in Cæsar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,

Lest I should be surprised:

Keep him not waiting for his love too long.
You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest
jewels;

With them the wreath of victory I made
(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead:
You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.
Iras. The aspicks, madam?
Cleo. Must I bid you twice?

[Exit CHAR. and IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life

on me,

To rush into the dark abode of death,
And seize him first! If he be like my love,
He is not frightful sure!

We are now alone, in secrecy and silence,
And is not this like lovers? I may kiss
These pale cold lips-Octavia does not see me;
And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus,
Than see him in her arms!-O welcome, wel-
come!

Enter CHARMION and IRAS, with the aspicks, &c.
Char. What must be done?
Cleo. Short ceremony, friends;
But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel
Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely,
Nor left his shield behind him. Only thou
Couldst triumph o'er thyself, and thou alone
Wert worthy so to triumph.

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 saw him first on Cydnos' bank,
All sparkling like a goddess; so adorned,
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 o' th' world. Hail, you dear relicks

Of my immortal love!

Oh, 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.

[Within.

Ser. The queen, where is she?
The town is yielded, Cæsar's at the gates.
Cleo. He comes too late to 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 it,
And not be sent by him,

But bring myself, my soul, to Antony.

[Turns aside, and then shows her urm bloody. Take hence: the work is done!

Ser. 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.

[Within.

[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 head:
my
my eyelids fall,
And dear love is vanished in a mist!
my
Where shall I find him, where? oh! 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; CHAR-
MION stands behind her chair, as dressing
her head.

Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound,
and Egyptians.

2 Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havoc death
has made!

Ser. 'Twas what I feared.
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.

Ser. 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,
Shows she died pleased with him, for whom she
lived,

And went to charm him in another world.
Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,
Cæsar's just entering; grief has now no leisure.
To grace the imperial triumph. Sleep, blest
pair!

Secure from human chance, long ages out,
While all the storms of fate fly o'er
And fame to late posterity shall tell,
your tomb:
No lovers lived so great, or died so well.

[Exeunt.

N

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 your's 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 or purple best becomes his face-

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Or 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 pow'r 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;
Heav'n 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.

DON SEBASTIAN.

BY

DRYDEN.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY A WOMAN.

THE judge remov'd, though he's no more my lord,
May plead at bar, or at the council-board:"
So may cast poets write; there's no pretension,
To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
I see not one, that wears a damning face.
The British nation is too brave to show
Ignoble vengeance, on a vanquished foe;
At least be civil to the wretch imploring,
And lay your paws upon him, without roaring;
Suppose our poet was your foe before,
Yet now the bus'ness of the field is o'er;
'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
When troops are into winter-quarters gone.
Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
And you well know, a play's of no religion.
Take good advice, and please yourselves this day;
No matter from what hands you have the play.
Among good fellows ev'ry health will pass,
That serves to carry round another glass :
When, with full bowls of burgundy you dine,
Though at the mighty monarch you repine,
You grant him still Most Christian, in his wine.

Thus far the poet, but his brains grow addle;
And all the rest is purely from this noddle.
You've seen young ladies at the senate door,
Prefer petitions, and your grace implore;
However grave the legislators were,

Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair ;
Reasons as weak as theirs perhaps I bring,
But I could bribe you with as good a thing.
I heard him make advances of good nature,
That he for once would sheath his cutting satire;
Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again
The sacred names of fops and beaux prophane.
Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear,
As times go now, he offers very fair.

Be not too hard on him with statutes neither;
Be kind; and do not set your teeth together,
To stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather.
Horses by papists are not to be ridden;
But sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden;
For in no rate-book, it was ever found
That Pegasus was valued at five pound:
Fine him to daily drudging and inditing;
And let him pay his taxes out,-in writing.

PROLOGUE.

Sent to the Author by an unknown hand, and proposed to be spoken by Mrs Monford, dressed like an Officer.

BRIGHT beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,
Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play,
Or is't the poet's execution day?

His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spite and spleen you were come hither,
For he has kept the pen, though lost the feather.
And on my honour, ladies, I avow,
This play was writ in charity to you,
For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?
Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation
For the abuse of so great dispensation;
And therefore I resolved to change vocation

For want of petticoat I've put on buff,
To try what may be got by lying rough:
How think you, sirs-is it not well enough?
Of bully critics I a troop would lead,

But one replied, thank you, there's no such need,
I at groom-porters, sir, can safer bleed.
Another, who the name of danger loathes,
Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
But that his horses were in body-cloaths;
A third cry'd, damn my blood! I'd be content
To push my fortune, if the parliament
Would but recall claret from banishment.
A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse,
I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse,
Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no
shoes.

Well, I may march, thought I, and fight and trudge,
But of these blades the devil a man will budge;
They there would fight e’en just as here they
judge.

Here they will pay for leave to find a fault,
But when their honour calls, they can't be bought,

Honour in danger, blood and wounds is sought. Lost virtue, whither fled, or where's thy dwell

ing?

Who can reveal? at least 'tis past my telling,
Unless thou art embark'd for Inniskelling.
On carrion tits those sparks denounce their rage,
In boot of wisp and Leinster freese engage,
What would you do in such an equipage?
The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
Not out of arrant shame of being beaten,
As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.
Were wit, like honour, to be won by fighting,
How few just judges would there be of writing,
Then you would leave this villainous back-biting;
Your talents lie how to express your spite,
But where is he knows how to praise aright?
You praise like cowards, but like critics fight.
Ladies be wise, and wean these yearling calves,
Who in your service too are mere faux braves,
They judge, and write, and fight, and love-by
halves.

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