 | Antony and Cleopatra |  |
SCENE VI.
Artuasdes enters in Chains of Gold.Cleo.
A presence that bespeaks us.—Noble sir,
The lot of war is not the test of worth—
The task of virtue is not to controul,
But bear our fortune.—Would you aught with us?
Art.
Yes, lady.
Cleo.
You are, as we are told, Armenia's monarch,
The valiant Artuasdes.
Art.
Once, a monarch.
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He, of that name, who lately bore the scepter,
Was near to us in blood.—Was he your sire?
Art.
No, madam.
Cleo.
They say you have a matter to reveal,
Touching ourselves.
Art.
Nearly.
Cleo.
Unfold, I pray you.
Art.
To none but Cleopatra.
Cleo.
Leave us!
[Her attendants go out.
—Now, sir!—
But let me not precipitate your purpose,—
Your frame appears to labour with some secret,
Too big for birth!
Art.
O Cleopatra!
Cleo.
Speak—What, man, in tears?
Speak—we have power, and are not void of pity.
Art.
For you, for you they fall.—O, fairest page
Of the world's volume, how art thou become
A blot to every eye!
Thou shame and glory of the house of Lagos!
Sweet flower of nature's field!—O pity, pity!—
So cropt and cast abroad.
Cleo.
Opprobrious ruffian!—But, thine head shall pay
The trespass of thy tongue.
Art.
My head?—how gladly!
So that my blood might wash thy stains away.
Cleo.
Yet I am patient—Come, unfold thy slanders.
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To cast dishonour on us?
Art.
Art thou not harlot to the Antony?
What, though he be the foremost man on earth—
Were he the first of all the gods in heaven,
Yet the bright heiress of the Ptolemies
Were, so, degraded.
Cleo.
Is that our crime?—but we excuse thine error,
And thank thee for thine interest in our honour.
Sayst thou, the harlot of the Antony?—
So Rome gives out; for Rome would have it so.
But Egypt, and the gods of Nile, do know
I am his wedded wife.
Art.
His wife?—O Isis!
Cleo.
His wedded, honour'd wife!—But, who art thou,
That with so kindly and so warm a passion,
Takest to thee our concerns?
Art.
First, let me pay this tribute of my joy,
To the redemption of thy fame.
Cleo.
Ha!—Somewhat
Would say, thou'rt nearer unto Cleopatra,
Than yet she can divine.—Who—whence—what art thou?
Art.
While thou, Arsinoe, and young Ptolemy,
Were yet but infants; a conspiracy,
In a dark hour, and at one bloody stroke,
Meant to cut off the royal line of Egypt.
Cleo.
True.
Art.
Your mother,
Sister to Artuasdes, then was pregnant;
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In secret sent the infant to Armenia.
Cleo.
Somewhat of this, but like a dream long laps'd,
Occurs to thought.—And, lives the royal little one?
Art.
Perhaps.
Cleo.
How fated?
Art.
Not for happy.
Cleo.
Haply too in bonds.—Is it not so?
Art.
Know'st thou thy father's character and signet?
[Gives a parchment and wax.
Cleo.
Yes, yes, 'tis Ptolemy's.—
My heart, unknowing, took acquaintance with thee.
Thou art the son of Lagos.—O, my brother!
[Embraces.
Art.
Ah, Cleopatra! while thy fame was doubtful,
I long disdain'd to claim alliance with thee.
As ill it now becomes thy royalty,
To own these bonds.
Cleo.
We cancel their disgrace.
Ah, how had Egypt sunk with shame eternal,
To see the heir of her imperial house,
Led through her streets in chains!
Art.
But, canst thou answer to thy Roman lord
This conduct?
Cleo.
O, doubt it not. He will restore thy kingdom,
With regions multiplied.—What,
Shall I not give a brother to his bosom,
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A guardian to our precious little ones?
Art.
Yes, Cleopatra, a true father to them.
Cleo.
Wilt thou, my brother?—Once more, to my arms!
And yet, again!—To thy sole sister, welcome!
Dearer than health or fame!—more rich than empire!
Welcome, O welcome, to thy native Egypt,
The seat of thy great fathers!
[Exeunt.
| Antony and Cleopatra | |