 | The False One |  |
Actus Quartus
Scena Prima.
Enter Ptolomy, Photinus, Achillas, Achoreus.Ach.
I told ye carefully, what this would prove to,
What this inestimable wealth and glory
Would draw upon ye: I advis'd your Majesty
Never to tempt a Conquering Guest: nor add
A bayte, to catch a mind, bent by his Trade
To make the whole world his.
Pho.
I was not heard Sir:
Or what I said, lost, and contemn'd: I dare say,
(And freshly now) 'twas a poore weaknesse in ye,
A glorious Childishness: I watch'd his eye,
And saw how Faulcon-like it towr'd, and flew
Upon the wealthy Quarry: how round it mark'd it:
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How greedily he ask'd from whence it came,
And what Commerce we held for such abundance:
The shew of Nylus, how he laboured at
To finde the secret wayes: the Song delivered.
Ach.
He never smil'd I noted at the pleasures:
But fixt his constant eyes upon the treasure;
I doe not thinke his eares had so much leizure
After the wealth appear'd, to heare the Musique?
Most sure he has not slept since, his minds troubld
With objects they would make their own still labour.
Pho.
Your sister he ne're gaz'd on: that's a main note,
The prime beauty of the world had no power over him.
Ach.
Where was his mind the whilst?
Pho.
Where was your carefulnesse
To shew an armed thiefe the way to rob ye:
Nay, would you give him this, 'twill excite him
To seeke the rest. Ambition feeles no gift,
Nor knows no bounds indeed: ye have done most weakly.
Ptol.
Can I be too kind to my noble friend?
Pho.
To be unkind unto your noble selfe, but favours
Of indiscretion, and your friend has found it.
Had ye been train'd up in the wants and miseries
A souldier marches through: and known his temperance
In offerd courtesies, you wovld have made
A wiser Master of your owne, and stronger.
Ptol.
Why should I give him all, he would return it?
'Tis more to him, to make Kings.
Pho.
Pray thee be wiser,
And trust not with your lost wealth, your loved liberty,
To be a King still at your own discretion:
Is like a King; to be at his a vassaile.
Now take good councell, or no more take to ye
The freedome of a Prince.
Achil.
'Twill be too late else:
For, since the Masque, he sent three of his Captaines
(Ambitious as himselfe) to view againe
The glory of your wealth.
Pho.
The next himselfe comes,
Not staying for your courtesie, and takes it.
Ptol.
What counsell my Achoreus?
Ach.
I'le goe pray Sir,
(For that is best counsel now) the gods may help ye.
Ex.
Pho.
I found ye out a way but 'twas not credited,
A most secure way; whether will ye flye now?
Achil.
For when your wealth is gone, your power must
follow.
Pho.
And that diminisht also, what's your life worth?
Who would regard it?
Ptol.
You say true.
Achil.
What eye
Will looke upon King Ptolomy? If they do looke,
It must be in scorne:
For a poore King is a monster;
What eare remember ye? 'twill be then a courtesie,
(A noble one) to take your life too from ye:
But if reserv'd, you stand to fill a victory,
As who knowes Conquerours minds? though outwardly
They beare faire streames.
O Sir, does this not shake ye?
If to be honyed on to these afflictions—
Ptol.
I never will: I was a Foole.
Pho.
For then Sir
Your Countreys cause falls with ye too, and fetterd:
All Ægypt shall be ploughed up with dishonour.
Ptol.
No more: I am sensible: and now my spirit
Burnes hot within me.
Achil.
Keepe it warm and fiery.
Pho.
And last be counsaild.
Ptol.
I will, though I perish.
Pho.
Goe in: wee'l tell you all: and then wee'l execute.
Exeunt.
Scena Secunda.
Enter Cleopatra, Arsino, Eros.Ars.
You are so impatient.
Cleo.
Have I not cause?
Women of common Beauties, and low Births,
When they are slighted, are allowd their angers,
Why should not (a Princesse) make him know
The basenesse of his usage.
Ars.
Yes: 'tis fit:
But then againe you know what man.
Cleo.
He is no man:
The shadow of a Greatnesse hangs upon him,
And not the vertue: he is no Conquerour,
H'as suffer'd under the base drosse of Nature:
Poorely delivered up his power to wealth,
(The god of bed-rid men) taught his eyes treason
Against the truth or love: he has rais'd rebellion:
defid'e his holy flames.
Eros.
He will fall backe again,
And satisfie your Grace.
Cleo.
Had I been old,
Or blasted in my bud, he might have shewd
Some shadow of dislike: But, to prefer
The lustre of a little art, (Arsino)
And the poore glow-worme light of some faint Jewels,
Before the life of Love, and soule of Beauty,
Oh how it vexes me: he is no Souldier,
(All honourable souldiers are Lovers servants)
He is a Merchant: a meere wandring Merchant,
Servile to gaine: he trades for poore Commodities,
And makes his Conquests, thefts; some fortunate Captains
That quarter with him, and are truly valiant,
Have flung the name of happy Cæsar on him,
Himselfe ne're wonne it: he is so base and covetous,
Hee'l sell his sword for gold.
Ars.
This is too bitter.
Cleo.
Oh I could curse my self, that was so foolish,
So fondly childish to beleeve his tongue,
His promising tongue, ere I could catch his temper,
I had trash enough to have cloyd his eyes withall:
His covetous eyes; such as I scorne to tread on:
Richer then ere he saw yet, and more tempting;
Had I known he had stoop'd at that, I had sav'd mine honour,
I had been happy still: but let him take it,
And let him brag how poorly I am rewarded:
Let him goe conquer still weake wretched Ladies:
Love has his angry Quiver too, his deadly,
And when he findes scorne, arm'd at the strongest:
I am a foole to fret thus, for a foole:
An old blinde foole too? I lose my health: I will not:
I will not cry: I will not honour him,
With tears diviner then the gods he worships:
I will not take the paines to curse a poore thing.
Eros.
Dye not: you shall not need.
Cleo.
Would I were prisoner
To one I hate, that I might anger him,
I will love any man, to breake the heart of him:
Any, that has the heart and will to kill him.
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Take some faire truce.
Cleo.
I will goe study mischiefe,
And put a looke on, arm'd with all my cunnings,
Shall meet him like a Basilisque, and strike him:
Love, put destroying flames into mine eyes,
Into my smiles, deceits, that I may torture him,
That I may make him love to death, and laugh at him.
Enter Appollodorus.
Ap.
Cæsar commends his Service to your Grace.
Cleo.
His service? what's his service?
Eros.
Pray ye be patient,
The noble Cæsar loves still.
Cleo.
What's his will?
Ap.
He craves access unto your Highnesse
Cleo.
No:
Say no: I will have none to trouble me.
Ars.
Good Sister:
Cleo.
None I say: I will be private.
Would thou hadst flung me into Nylus (keeper)
When first thou gav'st consent, to bring my body
To this unthankfull Cæsar.
Ap.
'Twas your will (Madam)
Nay more: your charge upon me, as I honoured ye:
You know what danger I endured.
Cleo.
Take this,
And carry it to that Lordly Cæsar sent thee:
There's a new Love, a handsome one: a rich one:
One that will hug his minde: bid him make love to it:
Tell the ambitious Broker, this will suffer—
Enter Cæsar.
Ap.
He enters.
Cleo.
How?
Cæsar.
I doe not use to waite (Lady)
Where I am, all the dores are free, and open.
Cleo.
I ghesse so, by your rudenesse.
Cæsar.
Ye are not angry?
Things of your tender mold, should be most gentle;
Why doe you frowne? good gods, what a set-anger
Have you forc'd into your face? Come, I must temper ye:
VVhat a coy smile was there, and a disdainfull?
How like an ominous flash it broke out from ye?
Defend me (Love) Sweet, who has anger'd ye?
Cleo.
Shew him a glasse; that false face has betraid me:
That base heart wrought me—
Cæsar.
Be more sweetly angry;
I wrong'd ye faire?
Cleo.
Away with your foule flatteries:
They are too grosse: but that I dare be angry,
And with as great a god as Cæsar is,
To shew how poorly I respect his memory,
I would not speake to ye.
Cæsar.
Pray ye undoe this riddle,
And tell me how I have vext ye?
Cleo.
Let me thinke first
VVhether I may put on a Patience
That will with honour suffer me: know, I hate ye,
Let that begin the story: Now I'le tell ye.
Cæsar.
But do it milder: In a noble Lady,
Softnesse of spirit, and a sober nature,
That moves like summer winds, coole: and blows sweetnesse;
Shews blessed like her selfe.
Cleo.
And that great blessednesse
You first reap'd of me, till you taught my nature
Like a rude storm to talk aloud, and thunder
Sleep was not gentler to my soule, and stiller;
You had the Spring of my affections:
And my faire fruits I gave you leave to taste of:
You must expect the winter of mine anger:
You flung me off, before the Court disgrac'd me,
VVhen in the pride I appeard of all my beauty,
Appear'd your Mistresse; tooke into your eyes
The common-strumpet love of hated lucre,
Courted with covetous heart, the slave of nature,
Gave all your thoughts to gold: that men of glory,
And minds adorn'd with noble love, would kick at:
Souldiers of royall marke, scorne such base purchase:
Beauty and honour are the marks they shoot at;
I spake to ye then; I courted ye, and woo'd ye:
Call'd ye deare Cæsar, hung about ye tenderly:
VVas proud to appear your friend.
Cæsar.
You have mistaken me.
Cleo.
But neither Eye, nor Favour, not a Smile
VVas I blessed backe; but shooke off rudely,
And, as ye had been sold to sordid infamy,
You fell before the Images of treasure,
And in your soule you worship'd: I stood slighted,
Forgotten and contemn'd; my soft embraces,
And those sweete kisses you call'd Elizium,
As letters writ in sand, no more remembred?
The name and glory of your Cleopatra
Laugh'd at, and made a story to your Captaines:
Shall I endure?
Cæsar.
You are deceiv'd in all this,
Upon my life you are, 'tis your much tendernesse.
Cleo.
No, no, I love not that way; you are cozen'd:
I love with as much ambition as a Conquerour,
And where I love, will triumph.
Cæsar.
So you shall:
My heart shall be the Chariot that shall beare ye,
All I have wonne shall waite upon ye: By the gods
The bravery of this womans mind, has fired me:
Deare Mistress shall I but this night?—
Cleo.
How Cæsar?
Have I let slip a second vanity
That gives thee hope?
Cæsar.
You shall be absolute,
And Reigne alone as Queen: you shall be any thing.
Cleo.
Make me a maide againe, and then I'le hear thee;
Examine all thy art of VVar, to doe that;
And if thou find'st it possible, I'le love thee:
Till when, farewell, unthankfull.
Cæsar.
Stay.
Cleo.
I will not.
Cæsar.
I command.
Cleo.
Command, and goe without, Sir.
I doe command thee be my slave for ever,
And vexe while I laugh at thee.
Cæsar.
Thus low, beauty?
Cleo.
It is too late; when I have found thee absolute,
The man that Fame reports thee, and to me:
May be I shall thinke better. Farewell Conquerour.
Exit
Cæsar.
She mocks me too: I will enjoy her Beauty:
I will not be deni'd; Ile force my longing.
Love is best pleas'd, when roundly we compell him,
And as he is Imperious, so will I be.
Stay fool, and be advis'd: that dulls the appetite;
Takes of the strength and sweetnesse of delight.
By heaven she is a miracle, I must use
A handsome way to win: how now? what feare
Dwells in your faces? you looke all distracted.
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Sce.
If it be feare, 'tis feare of your undoing?
Not of our selves: feare of your poore declining:
Our lives and deaths are equall benefits,
And we make louder prayers to dye nobly,
Then to live high, and wantonly: whilst you are secure here,
And offer Heccatombs of lazie kisses
To the lewd god of Love, and cowardize,
And most lasciviously dye in delights,
You are begirt with the fierce Alexandrians,
Dol.
The spawne of Ægypt, flow about your Pallace,
Arm'd all: and ready to assault.
Ant.
Led on
By the false and base Photinus and his Ministers;
No stirring out; no peeping through a loop-hole,
But straight saluted with an armed Dart.
Sce.
No parley: they are deafe to all but danger,
They sweare they will flea us, and then dry our Quarters:
A rasher of a salt lover, is such a Shooing-horne:
Can you kisse away this conspiracy, and set us free?
Or will the Giant god of love, fight for ye?
Will his fierce war-like bow kill a Cock-sparrow?
Bring out the Lady, she can quel this mutiny:
And with her powerfull looks, strike awe into them:
She can destroy, and build againe the City,
Your Goddesses have mighty gifts: shew 'em her fair brests,
The impregnable Bulwarks of proud Love, and let 'em
Begin their battery there: she will laugh at 'em;
They are not above a hundred thousand, Sir.
A mist, a mist, that when her Eyes breake out,
Her powerfull radiant eyes, and shake their flashes,
Will flye before her heates.
Cæsar.
Begirt with Villaines?
Sce.
They come to play you, and your Love a Huntsup
You were told what this same whorson wenching, long agoe would come too:
You are taken napping now: has not a souldier
A time to kisse his friend, and a time to consider,
But he must lye still digging, like a Pioner,
Making of mines, and burying of his honour there?
'Twere good you would thinke—
Dol.
And time too, or you will finde else
A harder task, then Courting a coy Beauty.
Ant.
Look out and then beleeve.
Sce.
No, no, hang danger:
Take me provoking broth, and then goe to her:
Goe to your Love, and let her feele your valour;
Charge her whole body, when the sword's in your throat (Sir,)
You may cry, Cæsar, and see if that will help ye.
Cæsar.
I'le be my selfe againe, and meet their furies,
Meet, & consume their mischiefs: make some shift (Sceva)
To recover the Fleet, and bring me up two Legions,
And you shall see me, how I'le breake like thunder
Amongst these beds of slimy Eeles, and scatter 'em.
Sce.
Now ye speak sense: I'le put my life to the hazard
Before I goe. No more of this warm Lady,
Shee will spoil your sword-hand.
Cæsar.
Goe: come, lets to Councell
How to prevent, and then to execute.
Scena Tertia.
Enter Souldiers.1 Sold.
Did ye see this Penitence?
2 Sold.
Yes: I saw, and heard it.
3 Sold.
And I too: looke'd upon him, and observ'd it,
Hee's the strangest Septinius now—
1. Sol.
I heard he was altered,
And had given away his Gold to honest uses:
Cryde monstrously.
2. Sol.
He cryes abundantly:
He is blind almost with weeping.
3. Sol.
'Tis most wonderfull
That a hard hearted man, and an old Souldier
Should have so much kind moysture: when his mother dyde
He laughed aloud, and made the wickedst Ballads—
1. Sol.
'Tis like enough: he never lov'd his Parents;
Nor can I blame him, for they neere lov'd him.
His mother dream'd before she was deliverd
That she was brought abed with a Buzzard, and ever after
She whistled him up to th'world, his brave clothes too
He has flung away: and goes like one of us now:
Walks with his hands in's pockets, poore and sorrowfull,
And gives the best instructions.—
2. Sol.
And tells stories
Of honest and good people that were honourd,
And how they were remembred: and runs mad
If he but hear of any ungratefull person,
A bloudy, or betraying man—
3. Sol.
If it be possible
That an Arch-Villain may ever be recovered,
This penitent Rascall will put hard: 'twere worth our labour
To see him once againe.
Enter Septinius.
1. Sol.
He spares us that labour
For here he comes.
Sep.
—Blesse ye my honest friends,
Blesse ye from base unworthy men; come not neare me:
For I am yet too taking for your company.
1. Sol.
Did I not tell ye?
2. Sol.
What booke's that?
1. Sol.
No doubt
Some excellent Salve for a sore heart, are you
Septinius, that base knave, that betrayd Pompey?
Sep.
I was, and am; unlesse your honest thoughts
Will look upon my penitence, and save me
I must be ever Villaine: O good Souldiers
You that have Roman hearts, take heede of falsehood:
Take heede of blood; take heede of foule ingratitude,
The Gods have scarce a mercy for those mischiefes,
Take heede of pride, 'twas that that brought me to it.
2. Sol.
This fellow would make a rare speech at the gallowes
3. Sol.
'Tis very fit he were hangd to edifie us:
Sep.
Let all your thoughts be humble, and obedient,
Love your Commanders, honour them that feede ye:
Pray, that ye may be strong in honesty
As in the use of armes; Labour, and diligently
To keepe your hearts from ease, and her base issues;
Pride, and ambitious wantonnesse, those spoyld me:
Rather loose all your limbs, then the least honesty,
You are never lame indeed, till losse of credit
Benum ye through: Scarrs, and those maimes of honour
Are memorable crutches, that shall beare
When you are dead, your noble names to Eternity.
1. Sol.
I cry.
2. Sol.
And so doe I.
3. Sol.
An excellent villaine.
1. Sol.
A more sweet pious knave, I never heard yet.
2. Sol.
He was happie he was Rascall, to come to this
Enter Achoreus.
Who's this? a Priest?
Sep.
O stay, most holy Sir!
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(Isis, and great Osiris) pitty me,
Pitty a loaden man, and tell me truly
With what most humble Sacrifice I may
Wash off my sin, and appease the powers that hate me?
Take from my heart those thousand thousand furies,
That restlesse gnaw upon my life, and save me?
Orestes bloody hands fell on his Mother,
Yet, at the holy altar he was pardon'd.
Ach.
Orestes out of madnesse did his murther,
And therefore he found grace: thou (worst of all men)
Out of cold blood, and hope of gaine, base lucre,
Slewst thine own Feeder: come not neare the altar,
Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the Sacrifice,
Thou art markt for shame eternall.
Exit.
Sep.
Looke all on me,
And let me be a story left to time
Of blood and Infamy, how base and ougly
Ingratitude appears, with all her profits,
How monstrous, my hoped grace, at Court? good souldiers.
Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound
Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodnesse:
To be valiant, old, and honest, O what blessednesse—
1 Sold.
Dost thou want any thing?
Sep.
Nothing but your prayers:
2 S.
Be thus, and let the blind Priest do his worst,
We have gods as well as they, and they will heare us.
3 S.
Come, cry no more: thou hast wep't out twenty Pompeyes.
Enter Photinus, Achillas.
Pho.
So penitent?
Achil.
It seemes so.
Pho.
Yet for all this
We must employ him.
1 Sold.
These are the armed Souldier-leaders:
Away: and let's tot'h Fort, we shall be snapt else.
Exit.
Pho.
How now? why thus? what cause of this dejection?
Achil.
Why dost thou weepe?
Sep.
Pray leave me, you have ruin'd me,
You have made me a famous Villain.
Pho.
Does that touch thee?
Achil.
He will be hard to win: he feels his lewdnesse,
Pho.
He must be won, or we shall want our right hand.
This fellow dares, and knows, and must be heartned,
Art thou so poore to blench at what thou hast done?
Is Conscience a comrade for an old souldier?
Achil.
It is not that: it may be some disgrace
That he takes heavily; and would be cherish'd,
Septinius ever scorn'd to shew such weaknesse.
Sep.
Let me alone; I am not for your purpose,
I am now a new man.
Pho.
We have new affairs for thee
Those that would raise thy head.
Sep.
I would 'twere off,
And in your bellies for the love you beare me.
I'le be no more Knave: I have stings enough
Already in my breast.
Pho.
Thou shalt be noble:
And who dares thinke then that thou art not honest?
Achil.
Thou shalt command in Chief, all our strong Forces
And if thou serv'st an use, must not all justifie it?
Sep.
I am Rogue enough.
Pho.
Thou wilt be more, and baser:
A poor Rogue is all rogues: open to all shames:
Nothing to shadow him: dost thou think crying
Can keep thee from the censure of the Multitude?
Or to be kneeling at the altar save thee?
'Tis poore and servile:
Wert thou thine own Sacrifice
'Twould seeme so low, people would spit the fire out.
Achil.
Keep thy self glorious stil, though ne're so staind,
And that will lessen it, if not work it out
To goe complaining thus: and thus repenting
Like a poore Girle that had betraid her maiden-head—
Sep.
I'le stop mine eares.
Achil.
Will shew so in a souldier,
So simply, and so ridicolously, so tamely—
Pho.
If people would believe thee, 'twer some honesty,
And for thy penitence would not laugh at thee
(As sure they will) and beat thee, for thy poverty:
If they would allow thy foolery, there were some hope.
Sep.
My foolery?
Pho.
Nay, more then that, thy misery,
Thy monstrous misery.
Achil.
He begins to hearken:
Thy misery so great, men will not bury thee.
Sep.
That this were true!
Pho.
Why does this conquering Cæsar
Labour through the worlds deep Seas of toyls & troubles,
Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent afterwards?
Why does he slaughter thousands in a Battell,
And whip his Countrey with the Sword? to cry for't?
Thou killdst great Pompey: hee'l kil all his kinred,
And justifie it: nay raise up Trophies to it,
When thou hearest him repent: (he's held most holy too)
And cry for doing daily bloody murthers,
Take thou example, and goe aske forgivenesse,
Call up the thing thou nam'st thy conscience,
And let it work: then 'twill seeme well Septinius.
Sep.
He does all this.
Achil.
Yes: and is honoured for it;
Nay call'd the honoured Cæsar, so maist thou be:
Thou wert born as neere a Crowne as he.
Sep.
He was poore.
Pho.
And desperate bloody tricks got him this credit.
Sep.
I am afraid you will once more—
Pho.
Help to raise thee:
Off with thy pining blacke, it dulls a Souldier,
And put on resolution like a man,
A noble Fate waits on thee.
Sep.
I now feele
My selfe returning Rascall speedily.
O that I had the power—
Achil.
Thou shalt have all:
And doe all through thy power, men shall admire thee,
And the vices of Septinius, shall turn vertues.
Sep.
Off: off: thou must off: off my cowardize,
Puling repentance off.
Pho.
Now thou speakst nobly.
Sep.
Off my dejected looks: and welcome impudence:
My daring shall be Deity, to save me:
Give me instructions, and put action on me:
A glorious cause upon my swords point (Gentlemen)
And let my wit, and valour work: you will raise me,
And make me out-dare all my miseries?
Pho.
All this, and all thy wishes.
Sep.
Use me then,
Womanish feare farewell: I'le never melt more,
Lead on, to some great thing, to weale my spirit:
I cut the Cedar Pompey, and I'le fell
This huge Oake Cæsar too.
Pho.
Now thou singst sweetly:
And Ptolomy shall crowne thee for thy service:
(Exeunt.
Achil.
He's well wrought: put him on apace for cooling.
| The False One | |