 | Caesar In Aegypt |  |
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ACT III.
Effossum tumulis cupidè descendit in antrum, Illic Pellæi proles vesana Philipi Fælix prædo jacet, terrarum vindice fata Raptus.— Lucan. lib. 10.
SCENE Before the Tomb of Alexander. CÆSAR, DECIUS, ACHOREUS.Cæsar.
Decius , dismiss the Train; yet guard the Portal.
Observe the strictest Order, in our Watch:
These Sons of Nile are faithless, servile, dangerous!
The Fate of Pompey warns us to be wary.
When Anthony returns, here let him find me.
[Exit Decius.
Believe me, good Achoreus, thy Disgrace
Commends thee to the Breast of Cæsar: Here,
Thy Virtue seems a greater Prodigy,
Than all the Brood, or Monuments of Ægypt.
Thy just Humanity, thy Zeal for Pompey,
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When Holy Guides, neglect themselves, for Heav'n,
Nor fear to advance their Precepts, by Example,
'Tis then the Gods are righteously rever'd.
Acho.
Cæsar, thy Virtues, Knowledge, and thy Power,
Incite me now to bolder Acts of Duty:
And since I find not, in thy calmer Soul,
That fierce, untractable, remorseless Nature,
Wherewith thy Enemies asperse thy Fame,
Let not my zealous Grief offend thee, Cæsar,
If I confess, I sigh for thy Ambition!
Cæs.
Where it opposes Virtue, charge me freely!
Be bold! If I am justify'd to one
Good Man, the Millions I offend are Railers.
Virtue, like the Sun, shines not for Applause.
Acho.
Ambition was my Charge! which when it climbs
O'er violated Laws, tramples on Virtue:
Yet of the narrow Mountain when possess'd,
The Footing how unsure! the Fall how dreadful!
Perhaps by Treason! Treason has Ambition!
Or say thou wert secure, how vain the Glory!
To stand in Clouds, on Eminence, alone!
And view thy happier social Slaves beneath thee.
Even then must thou descend! Cæsar, behold,
Fix on this mouldring Monument thy Eyes;
Amidst the Wonders that our Nile can boast,
This best might suit Ambition's Meditation!
Of all the spacious Earth his Sword subdu'd,
Great Alexander, now, Commands but this.
Cæs.
Soft, Achoreus! lies Alexander here?
Acho.
Here rest his Bones! his Bounds of Empire, now.
Cæs.
Here might, indeed, the Moralist declaim.
Acho.
Here, when his ruthless Desolation ceas'd,
When his tumultuous Soul cou'd waste no more,
Himself receiv'd, and gave his Slaves, Repose.
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Thus, when the awful Gods wou'd scourge, or bless
Mankind, they give unbounded Power to One.
The Vice, or Virtues, of the Prince, create
Their Woes, or Happiness.
Acho.
Wou'dst thou from hence
Infer, that Rome's Obedience to thy Sway
Might make her, with the Loss of Freedom, happy?
Even Benefits, Impos'd, are gentler Chains:
Or say the Yoke of Cæsar might sit Easy?
Yet, who shall hold the Reins, when Cæsar is no more?
Perhaps, a Tarquin, or a Ptolomey!
A Prince of savage, or too ductile Nature.
Why, then, O Cæsar! this discordant Rage?
Why is Imperial Rome, that sway'd the Earth,
Her self at Variance with Prosperity?
Why wage thy Veterans War, without a Foe?
Why are her Sires by Sons, Brothers by Brothers slain?
As mutual Murther were the publick Welfare.
But, Cæsar, I am bold; pardon these Tears!
Think that Benevolence deplores, not Envy chides thee.
Cæs.
What thou hast urg'd, Achoreus, heaves my Heart!
Cæsar forgets not Nature, tho' Victorious:
I grieve to think the Innocent involv'd
In Ruins, which the Guilty have deserv'd!
Had Rome her ancient Virtue, with her Power,
Cæsar had trembled at her Civil Wars:
But Luxury, Corruption, Vice, and Fraud
Have drain'd her down, ev'n to the Lees of Rome.
Her Honours, now, by publick Price are bought;
Her Magistrates, by Blows, not Votes, elected:
Thus is the Carcass of her Freedom torn
By Beasts of Prey, each scrambling for his Share.
Where Men are Wolves, what Wretch wou'd be the Lamb?
Where Laws are violated, Arms are Virtue.
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Is Cæsar arm'd to Guard her Laws?
Cæs.
Be Patient.
Pompey, in War, was Great; Cæsar, Successful:
We fought, 'till Rome was glutted with our Spoils;
'Till she grew Jealous of the Swords that serv'd her.
While I was absent, Pompey's Arts prevail'd;
He wrought the Senate to a partial Vote,
That Cæsar from his Charge shou'd be recall'd,
And glorious Pompey in his Pow'rs confirm'd.
And to give greater Luster to his Honours,
They rob'd my Conquests of their due Demands;
Nor Triumph, nor a Province, was assign'd me.
Acho.
Rome to her Generals ever had been grateful.
This look'd, indeed, as if she fear'd her Pompey.
Cæs.
On this, I paus'd:—And, to assert my Right,
By their own Tribunes sent my Grievances,
With gentle Terms of Peace, and due Submission:
Their haughty Consuls, in Contempt of Cæsar,
And of those Laws that make the Tribunes Sacred,
Drove them with Violence from out the Senate;
And, at the Hazard of their Lives, from Rome:
Then call'd forth Pompey to oppose me. Him,
Because she fear'd, Rome chose her General;
And Her, because I knew not Fear, my Arms
Defy'd.—I pass'd the Rubicon,—She trembled!
Pharsalia, since, has prov'd which General's Sword
Might better have advanc'd her Glory.—Cato,
'Tis known, no less oppos'd the Power of Pompey;
Or if his Virtues since have join'd his Cause,
'Twas that he thought, since one must be her Master,
Rome wou'd have gentler Chains from Pompey's Nature.
This—Cæsar dares deny; and Time shall prove.
If, Cæsar, then, is question'd why his Arms
Oppose the Virtues he admits in Cato,
Or why he makes them not his Practice? Cæsar
Replies,—He will,—but will first have Power:
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Then Cato's Lectures shall give Laws to Cæsar.
Acho.
Cæsar, the Gods, alone, can read the Heart:
Thy Words, 'tis true, confirm me to revere
Thy Virtues; Heav'n best knows their secret Motive.
On this depend;—the Merits of thy Cause
Will prove, at last, the Measure of thy Fate.
Cæs.
When Fate shall call him, Cæsar is prepar'd.
Enter Decius.
Now, my Decius! why wear thy Looks this Sadness?
Dec.
When Roman Matrons wear the Chains of War,
What Roman Bosom but regrets the Triumph?
Never did Pompey's Fate, as now, affect me!
Pardon then, Cæsar! if my Sighs inform thee,
The fair distress'd Cornelia is thy Captive.
Cæs.
Cornelia! ha! thy Sighs become thee, Decius.
Dec.
The fell Septimius, who pursu'd her Flight,
Demanding, at the Port, immediate Entrance,
To lead his boasted Captive on to Cæsar:
I thought a Roman Matron's Bonds unfit
To grace the Vaunting of a Roman Traytor!
And therefore stopp'd his Triumph with a Guard,
'Till Cæsar's further Pleasure might be known.
Cæs.
Cæsar shall thank thee, Decius! and himself
Will make his Pleasure to Septimius known.
But haste! conduct us to this Fair Distress.
When Roman Virtue is oppress'd by Fate,
'Tis meet the Victor on the Vanquish'd wait.
[Exeunt.
SCENE An Apartment near the Port. Cornelia bound. Septimius speaking to the Roman Guards.
Sept.
Why loiters thus your busie Officer?
Is this fit Treatment for the Friends of Cæsar?
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The Head, that fam'd Pharsalia cou'd not reach?
Must we, that bring him Captives to compleat
His Conquest, wait, like Suitors, to present them?
Mistaken Decius may repent this Insult!
I'll take no Thanks, 'till Cæsar has reveng'd it.
Corn.
Mistaken Murderer! talk'st thou of Vengeance?
For any Treatment, that insults thy Crime?
Cæsar, tho' steep'd in Blood, abhors th'Assassin!
His Arms, tho' Impious, strike no Coward Blows!
Shall Murder claim the Wreaths of Conquest?
If Cæsar's Cause provok'd thy Hate to Pompey;
Why, like a Soldier, sought'st thou not in Battle,
Where arm'd, where Sword to Sword thou might'st have charg'd him?
There had his Wounds, at least, confest thee Brave,
And Cæsar, then, without a Blush had grac'd thee.
But as thou art detestable to Man,
'Tis some Asswagement of Cornelia's Woe,
That even the Foes of Pompey must avenge him.
Sept.
Enjoy thy empty Notions of Dishonour!
Decisive Blows, in spight of Railers, have
Their Merit. Cæsar knows the Use of Valour:
And, for great Actions, must have Hands intrepid.
Corn.
Why did I waste my Breath on Infamy!
But frantick Sorrow to the Winds will talk!
[Apart.
Enter Cæsar, Decius, and Attendants.
Sept.
Most mighty Cæsar! ere my Tongue presumes—
Cæs.
Cæsar disdains to hear—thy Deeds have spoke thee!
Decius, disarm! and see him closely guarded,
'Till injur'd Dignity pronounce his Doom!
Cornelia's Bonds deform the Pride of War!
These are not Roman, but Ægyptian Fetters.
The Virtuous never wear the Chains of Cæsar.
[Cæsar releases her. Septimius is bound and led off.
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O Cæsar! had'st thou conquer'd thus for Rome,
How greatly might this Grace of Power become thee!
But while thy Sword is drawn against her Laws;
O'er every Roman, whom thy Arms distress,
Such specious Comfort is injurious Insult!
Cornelia cannot thank thee, for her Woes!
If by some publick Crime I have deserv'd them,
Whence then this Pity? If I'm Innocent,
Let Cæsar name the Power, that dares t'inflict them?
Cæs.
When civil Discords to the Sword appeal,
From whatsoever Part the Wrong commences,
Neither can boast of Innocence in War!
Corn.
Give up thy own, but spare the Fame of Pompey!
What Senate own'd thy Cause?
Cæs.
What Gods crown'd his?
But oh! what Gods, or Senate, cou'd defend
The Sword, that brings Cornelia to Affliction?
Corn.
Cæsar, thou hurt'st me more by this Compassion,
Than all thy Terrors, in the Rage of War!
Yet boast not, Victor, of thy Sword's Success!
Cornelia's Fate has lost the Cause of Rome!
My cruel Destiny has fought for thee!
To that, a Victim fell my first Lord, Crassus!
By that, was Pompey vanquish'd, not by Cæsar!
Thou, but the Hand of Fate that follow'd me!
But that, th'inevitable Will of Jove,
Had long prefix'd my Ruin, to thy Fortune.
The Liberty of Rome had scap'd thy Chains,
Nor had thy Impious Arms o'er Pompey triumph'd.
Cæs.
Alas, we talk on too unequal Terms.
The gentlest Truth, that justifies my Arms,
Wou'd now appear a Triumph o'er Cornelia.
Corn.
Cæsar, no! so impartial is my Heart,
Wert thou but Innocent, my Tears wou'd cease:
Had Pompey's Fate been Just, I might have born it!
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And Pompey's Cause attended with his Blood,
Mankind might think, that Heav'n it self were sack'd,
That Dæmons had usurp'd immortal Power,
Revers'd their Laws, and made Rebellion Virtue.
Cæs.
Thus Virtue, when mis-led, becomes Injurious!
Thou talk'st of Cæsar, as if Rome were blameless!
As if her Senate had preserv'd her Free,
Nor long since sold her Power to private Hands!
While clamorous Guilt, and specious Patriot Zeal,
Wou'd cast on Cæsar the Reproach of Tyranny.
As if my Wrongs, and Insults, after Service,
Were not the Proofs of Pompey's Usurpation:
Of his o'er-bearing their dependant Votes,
To crush the Fortunes of rejected Cæsar,
Whose only Sword cou'd bar his Way to Empire.
Corn.
Thou dost defame him, Cæsar; he was true,
Firm, and devoted to the Laws of Rome.
Cæs.
O Cornelia! O! 'tis with Sighs I tell thee,
Pompey's Ambition shone thro' all his Arts!
Even to Contempt of Cæsar, it inflam'd him.
Had he receiv'd my Terms of Peace with Candor,
These Desolations never had reproach'd us:
Each had been Glorious in a private Life;
Nor had Cornelia's widow'd Arms deplor'd him.
Corn.
Provoking, gross Insinuation! Peace!
Thou know'st thy Terms were offer'd as a Feint,
T'amuse the Senate, and protract thy Sentence.
Cæs.
That Feint shou'd have been prov'd: had I receded,
Then had his Arms—But flatt'ring Fame deceiv'd him;
'Twas ev'n his common Boast, if he but stampt
His Foot, what Legions, at the Sound, wou'd wait him!
Corn.
Cou'd it be Boast, to think his Cause might call 'em?
Cæs.
The Cause of Cæsar—wanted not its Numbers.
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When Violence and Rapine sound to Arms,
Bankrupts and Prodigals are warm for War.
Cæs.
'Tis granted. Pompey's Army was Superior.
Corn.
Superior far in Virtue, not in Spoilers!
His Troops were cumber'd with the Sons of Peace,
Men train'd to civil Arts, to Laws, and Science!
Whom Place and Plenty had disus'd from Toil;
Unskil'd in War, yet, for their Birth-rights, Romans!
Souls that disdain'd their Bodies, when enslav'd;
And therefore left them, on Pharsalia's Plain,
To taint the Air with Cæsar's shameful Glory.
Cæs.
When Cæsar, like the Senate, shall misuse
The Trust the Gods assign, let Gods forsake him.
Corn.
Cæsar, some say thou hast a human Heart,
O'er private Sorrows melting to Compassion.
Cæs.
I feel Cornelia's Woe, tho' she contemns
My Pity.
Corn.
I retract the Pride: My Heart
Is humbled, Cæsar, while the general Woe
Thus bends me to thy Feet, with Tears for Rome!
Have pity on her Wounds! her Sighs! her Groans!
O yet relent! and Conquer with Compassion!
Compose the wailing World, and yield us Peace!
Thy tender Parent, Rome, is not Obdurate!
I know her, by my own remissive Heart!
In bare Imagination of the Joy,
It melts, forgets its private Grief, nor more
With Pompey's Ruin will upbraid thy Glory!
O! yet restore her Freedom! yet relieve her!
Here end thy Conquests! Conquer Cæsar, now!
And, like victorious Sylla, crown'd with Vengeance,
Resign that Power, which Gods nor Men cou'd Shake.
Cæs.
While Earth contains a Roman, that presumes
With Means coercive to reduce my Power,
All Thoughts of Peace are but inglorious Dreams.
Let Julius cease to be, or now be Cæsar!
Rome may detest, but cannot taint my Power!
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What Enemy, when Captive, is not pardon'd?
What are the Marks of Cæsar's Tyranny?
But, O Cornelia! spite of all my Boasts,
Thy pale Calamities upbraid Success,
And, like a chilling Frost, deface my Laurels!
Cæsar, at best, can but revenge thy Pompey!
There shall thy Tears yet triumph o'er his Foes,
And Cæsar's social Grief revere his Fame.
But I detain thy Sorrows from Repose;
What Comforts Ægypt can supply, command:
Decius, see thou her State be equal to
The Roman Matron's Dignity: her Friends,
Her Followers, all receiv'd, like Friends of Cæsar.
[Cæsar retiring to the End of the Scene, meets Antony. They seem to talk apart, while Cornelia speaks.
Corn.
Am I, ye Gods! so fallen! so greatly wretched!
That he, who bears unmov'd the Groans of Rome,
Can lend a Sigh to lost Cornelia's Woe!
Yet dares not She be thankful? Rigid Fate!
While Cæsar is the Foe of Rome, what great,
What noble Virtues, am I doom'd to hate?
[Exit, led by Decius.
Cæs.
But what, my Marcus, cou'd so long detain thee?
Ant.
To Cæsar ever has my Heart been open:
From thee, there's not a Frailty there conceal'd!
Why was I chosen for this fatal Errand?
O! I have drank my Ruin, at my Eyes!
Deform'd my Faith, betray'd my Truth to Cæsar!
From thee, as from a Conqueror, I came,
Assur'd of Triumph, but return a Captive!
Her tow'ring Charms, at once o'erbore my Soul!
I spoke for Cæsar, while I sigh'd for Antony!
Cæs.
We, Marcus, will be ever Friends! a Friend
[Taking his Hand.
Outweighs th'Indulgence of a short-liv'd Joy.
Prove, that thy Sighs prevail'd upon her Heart,
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Ant.
This Bounty, Cæsar, binds me to the Truth.
Hope had I none, but what my Weakness form'd.
Pleading for thee, I trembled at Success;
While her advancing Smiles gave me Despair!
When, with thy Conquests, I adorn'd thy Flame,
A conscious Pleasure sparkled at her Eyes,
Unheedful of the Wretch, that burnt, before her.
If Love were criminal, Despair has punish'd it.
Cæs.
Despair and Love ne'er vex the Soldier long!
Or Absence is a sure Relief—If not,
When Cæsar shall dispose of Provinces,
Ægypt may fall to Antony—'till when—
Ant.
May Cæsar's Fortunes lead him to his Wishes.
Cæs.
Saw you my Orders, to confirm her Crown, Obey'd?
Ant.
During my Audience, Ptolomey
In State approaching, plac'd it on her Brow:
On which the Nobles offering to renew
Their Homage; “Yet a while, defer, She cry'd,
“This doubtful Duty—Ere I take my Crown,
“From Cæsar am I yet to know the Terms
“Of wearing it! my Brother boasted to
“Deserve it whole: Cæsar perhaps has wrong'd him!
Then darting her Disdain around, she pass'd
The Croud, and left them to their Dread, astonish'd.
What haughty Conflict labours in her Breast,
Her private Audience better will unfold.
But see, she comes! O Cæsar, guard thy Heart!
[Exit.
Enter Cleopatra, who having made lowly Reverence to Cæsar, he gently approaches her.
Cæs.
Fair Wonder of the Nile! this Grace to Cæsar,
What Service can deserve, what Toils repay?
Cleo.
Cæsar, I come to undeceive thy Bounty!
A Crown restor'd, which Right, or Innocence,
Might claim, reflects its Lustre on the Donor:
But let not Cleopatra's Soul, by Fraud,
Or vile Concealment of a Truth, receive it;
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Cæs.
In what can Truth be Cleopatra's Foe?
Cleo.
By Pompey's Death, the Earth and Seas are Cæsar's.
But Cleopatra, had her Power prevail'd—
Cæs.
Had sav'd my Rival, to dispute the Title.—
Cleo.
The Charge is Just. And had not Spies prevented—
Cæs.
'Twas not in Spies, to intercept the Virtue!
That still retains its Merit, tho' abortive!
Cleo.
Then Cæsar is the Hero Fame proclaims him!
Now I revere the Grandeur I oppos'd!
My Crown, in Homage due to Cæsar, triumphs.
Cæs.
If Homage shou'd to Dignity be paid,
Cæsar might, rightly, kneel to Cleopatra.
Her generous Concern, for Pompey's Fate,
Without the Interest her Charms might boast,
Alone had been assur'd of Cæsar's Service.
Cleo.
Since Cæsar gives me Choice, that Service,
As to the nobler Motive, I ascribe to Virtue.
Cæs.
Yet Beauty, if she please, may mend her Choice!
Let us not rob the Needy, for the Great.
Love begs a little! Virtue scorns Reward,
Conscious of Duty, she content resigns
The Thanks, that Love with transport wou'd receive.
Cleo.
No, in the Lover, Cæsar wou'd be lost!
Love wou'd deplume the Hero, to the Swain,
And dress Ambition in a vulgar Merit.
Cæs.
Cæsar might scorn, like other Men, to Love!
But Cleopatra's Charms exalt her Slave,
And crown his Servitude, with Dignity.
Cleo.
This is the Language of our menial Courtiers,
Who, when their Hearts are warm, despise our Thrones,
And find an Empire on a Cynthia's Bosom:
But Cæsar's loftier Views contemn the Frailty.
Cæs.
A Soul so tow'ring, in a Form so fair,
As it might dart Despair to sighing Kings,
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Cleo.
How wou'd such Softness suit with Cæsar's Laurels?
Cæs.
Nor Gods, nor Men refuse the Flame of Love!
What is Ambition, if not crown'd by Beauty?
Can proud Preheminence, or vain Degree,
Lift up the Soul, to equal heights of Joy?
Can all our Pomp, our Glory, boundless Power!
To Punish or Reward, Revenge or Pardon?
To right the Injur'd, or restrain th'Oppressor?
To call forth Merit, from Obscurity,
And give its Rags to gawdy Sloth or Fraud?
To chace rebellious Kings? To crown th'Obedient?
To give, if possible, the World our Laws,
And even compel the Stubborn to be happy?
Can all these boasted Attributes of Power,
Be, in the Pride of doing well, rewarded?
In vain the Course by martial Speed is won,
If smiling Venus stands not at the Goal!
In vain, has Conquest led me round the Globe,
If in the richer Circle of this Zone
The Treasure of the Earth illudes my Toil.
Cleo.
O Cæsar, Cæsar! cease these Flatteries!
Nor give my Heart a Prospect of Delight,
Which only Latian Beauties can enjoy!
Such Transports, there, to Merit might be due;
But our Ægyptian Dames are born too near
The glowing Sun, to boast of Roman Lustre!
What I might boast, too early Cares deface;
And, like an eating Canker, in the Bud,
Have broke the slender Promise of a Flower.
But were I Mistress of those real Charms,
Which Cæsar's lavish Fancy has created,
He'd find my Eyes, ambitious as his Arms!
My first of Love shou'd bless the first of Men!
Gods! how the glorious Image swells my Soul,
T'have distant Monarchs crowding to my Court,
And, at my Feet, their Suppliant Empires laid!
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Circled with Lawrel, cast an awful Look;
Shone o'er their Heads, and darkned their Pretentions!
How wou'd my Transport, thro' the Press, make way,
And dart, like Venus, to the Arms of Mars.
While Crowns and Scepters catching in my Robe,
In vain, shou'd clog the Flight of my Ambition.
Cæs.
Inchanting Vision! O! the Mars! thou Soul
Of Juno, wrapt in Cytherea's Form.
Cleo.
Forgive these Sallies of a wandring Brain;
The fancy'd Being is no more! 'tis lost!
For me, the Gods have no such Hero found!
Unless my vanquish'd Heart—might call him—Cæsar.
Cæs.
Be Cæsar, then—the Mars, the Gods assign thee!
O take me, Goddess, gently to thy Arms!
There hide my Heart, and mould it to thy Wishes!
By Heav'n! there's Magick in thy softning Eyes!
So look'd Idalian Venus on the Swain,
When, to her Charms, the golden Prize was giv'n.
Cleo.
Cæsar, thou grow'st too fast upon my Heart!
Spite of my Boast,
My vaunting wild Ambition, I retreat,
I shrink, and tremble at thy Power! defend me!
Spare me! speak! for I cou'd hear thee talk for ever!
Cæs.
Is this a time for Words! when blazing Charms,
Like glittering Swords, in War, provoke the Charge!
Come forth, thou fair Defiance, to the Field
Of Love, and prove the Prowess of thy Beauty!
Hence, to some secret verdant Bower remove,
By Art or Nature form'd for blissful Love;
There wanton Cupids round thy Couch shall fly,
And kindling Flames, for ev'ry Charm supply.
There shall, compleat, the Wreaths of Cæsar be,
And crown his Conquest of the World in thee!
| Caesar In Aegypt | |