 | Caesar In Aegypt |  |
45
ACT IV.
—En altera venit Victima nobilior: placemus cæde secunda Hesperias gentes: jugulus mihi Cæsaris haustus Hoc præstare potest, Pompeii cæde nocentes Ut populus Romanus amet— Lucan. lib. 10.
PTOLOMEY, ACHOREUS.Ptolomey.
Talk not of Comfort, to a Wretch forlorn!
My Right, my Hopes of Empire have their Period!
My haughty Sister, in her Charms triumphant,
Now moulds the Heart of Cæsar, to my Ruin!
Her Vengeance, like a whirling Eddy, draws
Me headlong down, Ingulph'd, to rise no more!
While Cæsar's conscious Tyranny enjoys
The Fruit of my Ingratitude to Pompey;
Yet swells his Fame, with Insults for the Service.
Acho.
Yet Sir, be calm; Impartially reflect
On Cæsar's Conduct: you upbraid him now,
46
When was it known he made it not his Idol?
To hope his Friendship from the Blood of Pompey,
Was mixing Casar in the Herd of Men!
But since the awful Gods distinguish him
With a superior Sway, to bow Mankind,
Beneath their uncontestable Decrees;
Think it their Will, and make Obedience Virtue.
Ptol.
Can I then yield up, to his Rage, my Friends,
For due Obedience to their Sovereign's Will?
Acho.
Cou'd you abandon Pompey! such a Friend!
And perish, to protect his Murtherers?
Is Cæsar to be gain'd, by farther Errors?
Ptol.
What Course, in these Extremities, can help me?
This Cæsar chafes me, like the hunted Lyon!
The more I struggle in the Toil, the more
I'm bound, girded, self-tangled, in his Power.
Acho.
Ev'n, at the worst, Sir, safer are you there,
Than in those Hands that led you to the Toil:
Might I be heard—
Ptol.
O! had I never heard
But thee, these Miseries had ne'er befallen;
Then Cæsar's Honour had been here my Guard!
Nor had the Guilt of Pompey's Blood pursu'd me!
O! venerable Sage! yet help thy Prince!
Assist me! save me, from this nodding Ruin!
And, with thy wholesom Counsels, heal my Heart.
Acho.
Alas! my Prince, what's left, admits no Choice;
Those Counsellors, that shook, must save your Crown!
They, or their Master, must be Pompey's Victim!
Without a Murmur then, to Cæsar yield them.
The Argument they urg'd for Pompey's Fate,
Now holds against themselves, Necessity!
If there be room for Mercy, may they find it!
Cæsar, appris'd that I declar'd for Pompey,
Holds me in some degree of Trust and Favour.
47
May satisfy their Crime, my self will beg
The Mitigation, for my Prince's Honour.
Ptol.
The Virtues of Achoreus shall redeem it.
Acho.
See Sir! Photinus, and Achillas, come,
With downward Eyes, foreseeing what must fall!
Ill it befits Achoreus to insult
The Grief, which Virtue warns me not to comfort.
Permit me to retire—Now, Sir, exert
The King! be faithful to your self, and reign!
[Exit.
Enter Photinus and Achillas.
Ptol.
Why am I driv'n to these Indignities?
Why yield you not your selves to Cæsar's Mercy?
Or, must I send you bound, like Criminals?
And come my self, in Evidence against you?
If in your Hearts there liv'd that Truth you boast,
When you perceiv'd his Rage at Pompey's Fate,
Why stept you not undaunted forth, like Men,
To claim your Share of Glory, in the Deed?
But basely left your Prince deserted, lost,
To stand, alone, the Shock of his Reproaches?
Achil.
If Ptolemy disdains to be himself
Our Judge, we scorn to kneel for Cæsar's Mercy.
Phot.
Nor came we, Sir, to justifie our Errors;
The Infirmity of Nature; we confess them;
Cæsar's Vain-glory has deceiv'd our Hopes!
But if, for Pompey's Fate, our Blood must answer,
Our Sovereign's Will, not Cæsar, shall condemn us,
Your Victims, Sir, shall be themselves your Priests,
And pierce these honest Hearts that fail'd to serve you.
Achil.
Septimius' Hand has taught us how to die!
Ptol.
Septimius! ha!
Achil.
Yes Sir, the Insolence
Of Cæsar, like a Roman, he resented!
When, to compleat his late Pharsalian Conquest,
He brought Cornelia Captive, to his Presence,
The Tyrant's Pride disdain'd to give him Audience,
48
The Sting of which Disgrace so swell'd his Heart,
That the same Dagger he employ'd on Pompey,
In his own Breast he plung'd, in scorn of Cæsar.
Ptol.
Septimius dead!
Achil.
I saw him, on the Pavement, stiff and breathless.
Phot.
Now what's this mighty Tyrant's outside Greatness?
That storms at your Ingratitude to Pompey;
And while he reaps the Profit of your Crime,
Yet stiles his Treatment of Septimius, Virtue!
That daring Hand, that gave his Pride the World.
But all is of a-piece! Not Crowns escape him!
The Sov'reign Lord of Ægypt is his Slave,
And, in his sight, must crouch, and lowly bend
To watch th'imperious Bidding of his Eye!
Must give up all, his Friends, his Empire, Honour,
The yet untainted Honours of his Race,
A royal Sister's violated Fame,
To glut the Riots of his pamper'd Power.
Ptol.
Said'st thou my Sister!—born for my Undoing!
Phot.
This Night, devoted to voluptuous Love,
These Paramours, like Deities, have revell'd,
In all the Luxuries of sensual Joy!
The Scene selected, for their amorous Rites,
Is now that Bower, she terms the Paphian Court,
Herself the Venus there! the ambient Lake,
Which from a thousand gurgling Fountains flows,
A stately train of silver Swans surround,
Like naval Scouts to guard their Citadel!
A signal Streamer, from the Window wav'd,
Raises or falls the golden Drawbridge down,
To pass or to exclude attendant Slaves,
As Solitude incites, or cloys Desire:
A-down the distant Vale, in Order rang'd,
49
Where new Delights for every Sense are stor'd.
Their Banquets beggar Ægypt to supply;
As if they meant to waste that World he had conquer'd.
Now Bands of mimick Maskers, light-heel'd Gauls,
Melodious Virgins, or the warbling Eunuch,
Beguile the languid Intervals of Love!
To soft enervate Sounds, their Souls dissolve,
As Fame and Virtue were the Scorn of Greatness.
Ptol.
Discordant Thunder drown their Harmony,
And forked Lightnings rivet their Embraces!
Phot.
Methinks I see her, in her am'rous Dalliance,
Wanton, and toying with the Fate of Ægypt.
Ptol.
Villain! how dar'st thou rack me with these Horrors?
Unable to avoid, or to revenge them.
Phot.
'Tis therefore to your View, Sir, I present them!
To give your Vengeance Choice, on whom to fall!
Whether on us, whose Arms wou'd set you free,
Or on this wasteful Tyrant, that enslaves you?
Ptol.
What vaunting Project brooding in thy Brain,
To save thy self, wou'd plunge thy Prince in Ruin?
Phot.
If, Sir, our Lives can your lost Crown retrieve,
Take them! and bury, with our Bones, the Secret.
Achil.
But if our Prince dares urge us to the Proof,
These Hands, that have endanger'd, shall preserve him.
Ptol.
So confident! unfold this Mystery.
Phot.
The Moment, that I read, in Cæsar's Rage,
For Pompey's Death, the lowring Fate of Ægypt;
Conscious, that open Force were vain t'oppose him;
I gave Achillas Orders to detain,
Conceal'd within our Walls, some chosen Troops,
That might, in our Distress, revenge our Chains:
Cæsar returns, this Evening, to the Palace:
But knows not, that a subterraneous Vault,
50
May bring your Vengeance to his Doors, and at
A Blow—give Ægypt, and the World Repose.
Ptol.
Now by the injur'd Majesty of Kings!
The Vision wakes my Soul! bright Vengeance dawns!
O! for a Moment of resistless Ruin,
To crush the Head of this enormous Tyrant!
Gods! 'twere too much! the Thought o'erbears my Soul!
Ev'n Pompey's Head, by Cæsar's, were atton'd,
And Rome wou'd owe her Liberty to Ægypt!
Achil.
Nay more, the conquer'd World, to Ptolomey!
Phot.
Howe'er her Senate favour'd Pompey's Arms,
Yet his Success had been, as Cæsar's, dreadful!
Pompey preserv'd had been her equal Master:
But both destroy'd, secures her Friendship,
Confirms her Freedom, and your Fame immortal.
Ptol.
But oh! my Friends, in vain is all this Ardour,
Unless our Hopes were sure of Execution!
The secret Passage I approve; but while
Surrounded by his Guards, how may our Force,
Without Alarm, or Chance of his Escape,
Approach him? failing of our Blow, we perish.
Achil.
That, Sir, by Hands who have Access, shall reach him.
Some daring Spirits, in Cornelia's Train,
Impatient to preserve the Roman Laws,
Already have embrac'd our Enterprize.
Phot.
When next the Tyrant deigns to give them Audience,
(Which oft, with Smiles imperious, he allows,)
Then sure and sudden shall the Blow be giv'n!
When on a Signal, from the dreadful Vault,
Bursting like Thunder, shall our Troops rush forth,
And e'en defy his guardian Gods to save him.
Ptol.
O thou hast fir'd my Soul, with vengeful Triumph!
Isis! Osiris! Pharian Gods ador'd,
51
How glorious will your sacred Altars blaze,
When such a Victim, to your Vengeance bleeds!
What Terrors must this Waster of the World
Dismay, when from the teeming Earth, Revenge,
And meagre Death, impetuous shall assail him?
So when the prouling Wolf, on Ætna's Vale
Thirsting for Blood, o'erleaps the Rural Pale,
High o'er his Head the dreadful Mountain roars,
In Streams erect the spouted Sulphur soars,
And boiling to the Plain a blazing Torrent pours.
In vain the Savage from the Ruin turns,
But ere he dreads his Fate, amidst the Deluge burns.
[Exeunt.
SCENE opening to the Bower, &c.
Cæsar and Cleopatra appear sitting at a Banquet, attended all by Women. Cæsar attentively reading Letters.
Cleo.
Cæsar, these last Expresses have disturb'd you.
Shall we walk forth? or ride? or sail the Nile?
Perhaps this Cell's too gloomy; shall we change it?
Cæs.
The Place might charm a Deity: but while
Those smiling Eyes, with such a soft Concern,
Pour forth their quick'ning Glances to my Heart,
Immortal Pow'rs might change their Heav'n with Cæsar.
Cleo.
Cæsar, howe'er this Flattery charms my Ear,
My Sense is not so lull'd, but that I saw
You read those Letters, with a pensive Eye!
Why were they suffer'd to invade you here?
Was this a Place, for Bus'ness to intrude?
Cæs.
'Twas your Command, my Queen, I shou'd peruse them.
Cleo.
'Twas that my Heart, then, cou'd refuse you nothing.
I'll know this Secret, Cæsar, that affects you.
52
Away, you jealous one! there! tire your Patience.
[Gives her the Letters.
Cleo.
My Jealousy is cur'd! nor wanted I
To search the Secrets, but the Heart of Cæsar.
Since you permit me, I no more am curious.
[Gives back the Letters.
Cæs.
If I seem'd pensive, 'twas the Lover's Fear;
The Fear of being torn from Cleopatra.
Cleo.
Nay, then I am concern'd, to know the Cause.
Cæs.
The restless World, I find, envious of Cæsar,
Resolves to spin Resistance to the last.
These Letters, from Achaia, bring me Word,
That Scipio, Appius, Juba, lately join'd,
Have call'd on Cato, to command their Forces;
Who from Corcyra, since, has put to Sea,
To head the Contest, and revenge Pharsalia.
Cleo.
Alas, vain Men! have they not try'd their Cæsar?
Since they prefer their Ruin, to Submission,
'Tis but to March! to Meet them! and to Conquer!
Cæs.
How soon, that March, from Ægypt might recall me,
Was what o'ercast my Thoughts, for Cleopatra.
Cleo.
As Cæsar's Fame, in Arms, first warm'd her Heart,
So what supports his Glory, feeds her Flame!
But vacant Moments shou'd indulge Desire!
Cæs.
O cease, thou soft'ning Syren, thus to chant!
Lest, while I gaze, and listen to thy Voice,
I bury, in those Arms, the Cæsar that subdu'd thee!
Cleo.
What is this secret Charm, in martial Men,
That more than others, finds our Sex so easie?
Cæs.
The Brave, and Fair, methinks, become the Passion.
Cleo.
And yet they tell me, Cæsar, once you lov'd
An Ethiop Queen! was it her Crown that charm'd you?
How cou'd you bear a Dæmon in your Arms?
Cæs.
She serv'd sometimes to kill the Soldier's Care,
53
Soldiers but ill obey their sighing Leader!
Cleo.
Yet Antony has led victorious Legions,
Tho' he now sends successless Sighs to Love.
Cæs.
For whom? successless Sighs! impossible!
Cleo.
Indeed, I fear me, Cæsar, he's thy Rival.
For while I gave him Audience, his Confusion—
Cæs.
Was what became the Softness of his Errand.
Cleo.
If he were guilty, you cou'd pardon—
Cæs.
Pardon!
Were it his Crime that Cleopatra's fair?
Shou'd I condemn him, that he thought, like me?
Were not his Passion justify'd by Cæsar's?
Cleo.
Cæsar, I love you not, you're all Ambition!
How can you love, so free from Jealousy?
Cæs.
Why shou'd I either doubt my Friend, or wrong
My Cleopatra? where I love; I trust!
A gen'rous Flame's the Vigour of the Soul!
But shamefac'd Jealousy is mean Desire!
Where once Suspicion enters, Cæsar's Love
Must leave the Banquet, to the next invited!
But why these needless Wiles, to alarm
A Heart too willing of itself to yield?
Cleo.
Forgive me, Julius! if a Heart, like mine,
Thinks Art a Duty, to insure its Wishes!
Can I be too secure—I don't complain!
No! when I've Cause, my Suff'rings shall be silent.
Cæs.
Thou Soul of Love—
Cleo.
Let us have Musick, Cæsar.
A pleasing Sadness hangs upon my Heart,
Which I, methinks, wou'd sooth with Harmony.
Cæs.
Indulge the Softness, and inflame thy Cæsar!
O Rome, thy Envy of my Fortune, now,
Were just! reproach me! hate me! style me Tyrant!
Let Cato rail, but thus let Cæsar triumph!
[Embraces her.
[A Trumpet is heard at a distance.
54
Whence that unbidden Sound? Look forth, my Charmion.
[Exit Charmion.
Cæs.
A Trumpet! here!—can call on none but Cæsar.
Cleo.
A thousand various Apprehensions shake me:
Some Rashness of the King, t'assert his Power!
Cæs.
Fear not, my Queen, while Cæsar is thy Guard.
Re-enter Charmion.
Cleo.
Now! th'Occasion.
Char.
Madam, 'tis Antony,
With earnest Voice he hollows o'er the Lake,
For Speech with Cæsar.
Cleo.
Antony!
Cæs.
Your Leave,
My Queen, for his Admittance.
Cleo.
At Cæsar's Pleasure.
But let not me be present to his Audience.
Cæs.
Think you, I fear, to trust your Interview?
Cleo.
Cou'd it oblige my Cæsar, I might stay.
But in my Sense, 'twere kinder to retire.
[Cæsar leads her forth, and returns.
Cæs.
I like not this Alarm—Some new Disorder!
I've been remiss—but 'tis the Life of Cæsar,
To struggle with Annoyance.
Enter Antony.
Now, the News!
I read it, Marcus, in the Looks, unwelcome!
No matter, speak it whole, nor spare thy Terrors.
Ant.
Cæsar, be now thy self! the Terror's new!
The Captains of thy Legions mutiny.
Cæs.
They must be quell'd! Proceed! their Grievances.
Give me the Terms of Insolence, that spoke them?
Ant.
Tho' of themselves, too prompt to murmur, at
Their Toils, while Cæsar revels out the War!
I fear the gen'rous Freedom you've allow'd
55
In friendly Bowls they mingle, with our Chiefs;
Where Sons with Sires, Brothers with Brothers meeting,
Rush into former Fondness! Foes no more!
Remorse, and Shame of mutual Guilt, subdues 'em.
Now loud they curse the Rashness of their Cause,
Renounce their Hatred, and embrace in Love.
Swear, they, no more, will aggravate their Crime;
Nor glut, with Roman Blood, one Man's Ambition.
Peace they resolve! and as they're Romans born,
Are free,and have as ample Right to end,
As Cæsar to commence the War.
Cæs.
My Patience!
Has Conquest then so pamper'd them! so high,
In jauncing Pride, that they disdain their Rider?
Ant.
Nor, came they hither (thus they talk) to quell
Ægyptian Jars; nor, for a Wanton's Lip,
To prostitute the Terror of their Arms.
Cæs.
Where, Marcus, may I face this bellowing Herd?
That, like the Lion, Cæsar may disperse them.
Ant.
I left them swarming in the Palace Court,
Where Decius, to prevent the spreading Flame,
Holds them in Parley, while I made speed to Cæsar.
Cæs.
'Tis well; they shall be Judges of their General!
It must be so! No time for cool Resolves!
The Cure must, like the Malady, be desperate!
But, Cleopatra—No!—Staying, to part,
Might let the Torrent swell, to part us ever!
Befriend me, Marcus, in this Exigence;
Wait thou the Queen, inform her what has chanc'd,
Tell her, what dire Convulsions tore me hence,
But that I left my Friend, my dearer half,
To swage her Fears, and mitigate my parting.
[Exit.
Ant.
What pleasing Terrors fill, at once, my Soul?
What Solitude! what Scenes of soft Retirement!
56
The Fair alone, and pensive! Antony
Commission'd, as a Friend, to sooth her Fears,
To pour out all my full Benevolence
Of Heart, to calm her Sighs, for Cæsar's Absence?
Tumultuous Joy!—But oh! the torturing Task!
How, in the Friend, shall I conceal the Lover?
How, for my Rival, can I plead sincere?
When my own Suff'rings want her softer Pity?
Why hast thou bound me, Cæsar, by thy Trust,
To lose this Crisis of complaining Love?
Thy happier Stars, thy Pow'r, thy Conquests, Fame,
Have strew'd thy Way with Roses, to her Arms!
But what, alas! can lift my Hopes so high?
My Laurels sprout but from the Root of Cæsar;
Obscure, and shaded, by his loftier Boughs:
Despairing Antony, at best, but brings
A bleeding Heart, more passionately fond,
Yet that, forbid, by Honour, to complain.
Enter Cleopatra.
Cleo.
So soon Dispatcht, my Cæsar! Antony!
[Surpiz'd.
Ant.
Receives this Honour, by the Leave of Cæsar.
Cleo.
My trembling Heart! What wou'd thy Fears suggest?
The Leave of Cæsar! did you ask it?
Ant.
No!
Cleo.
Did he impose it! say! or did he think
The Bounty greater, to prevent Entreaty?
Why has his Absence thus insulted me!
That from another's Mouth, I must receive,
What Cæsar's Will decrees of Cleopatra!
Ant.
Cou'd you be calm, you'd find his anxious Love—
Cleo.
Talk not of Love! his Heart is all Ambition!
Beauty has only Charms, for useless Hours!
But the lov'd Idol of his Soul is Power!
To that, as to his Deity ador'd,
57
Ant.
Had you been Witness of his Pain to part,
How his conflicting Soul for Cleopatra—
Cleo.
Why staid he not himself, to satisfy
My Heart? can mine be eas'd by Deputation?
Assign'd, like irksome Bus'ness, to a Proxy?
Ev'n Bus'ness is preferr'd to Cleopatra!
Has Wedlock bound me tame to his Obedience,
Thankful to wait his Leisure of Desire?
Have I not scorn'd all Pomp of bridal Honours?
Deaf to the distant Sighs of Asia's Kings,
To make my Heart a Present worthy Cæsar?
Yet came I free, and spotless to his Arms,
Unclogg'd with languid Laws of Happiness.
And can I bear this cold prudential Flame,
That when his Int'rest calls, obsequious flies!
Calm to my Love, regardless of my Peace.
Ant.
Am I forbid to vindicate his Love?
Cleo.
O, had he ever lov'd, he wou'd have thought
The worst of Tortures Bliss, to silent Parting.
Ant.
Has Antony offended Cleopatra?
Is Cæsar's Love, from ought I've said, suspected?
Name but wherein, and execute his Vengeance!
Here with this Dagger wreak it on my Heart!
For I dare die, to prove the Faith of Cæsar.
Cleo.
Forgive these Sallies of a Heart alarm'd:
Too fond and faithful, for its own Repose!
I have offended you! Passion uncurb'd
In Presence of the innocent, is Insult:
If I am not unworthy of your Pardon,
Be kind, and dissipate my Doubts of Cæsar.
Ant.
Ye Gods! how great! how soft her Disposition!
[Apart.
Cleo.
What dire Mischance cou'd force him thus away?
Ant.
His Life! his Glory! Love! were all at stake!
From Causes, now, too tedious to relate,
His menacing Centurions mutiny!
58
They call their General to account his Conquests!
Had he not timely flown, to quench the Flame,
The Ruin might, ere this, have reach'd him here.
He knew, that parting Love counts Hours but Moments—
And therefore seiz'd that Moment to preserve you.
Cleo.
How are we sure he may suppress this Tumult?
Ant.
Banish your Fears! leave Cæsar to his Fortune?
His Genius never, at his Need, forsakes him:
This Cloud will pass; let but his View confront them,
His piercing Eye, like the Gorgonian Shield,
Shall turn this big-mouth'd Monster into Stone!
Then when like Perseus he returns, in Triumph,
Preserv'd Andromeda shall clasp the Hero.
Cleo.
You Romans want not Wiles of Adulation!
You sooth and play, like Wishes, with our Hearts!
When I'm in fault to Cæsar, plead for me.
The Tongue of Antony were sure to gain him!
Had our Ægyptian Court, in all its Pride,
The Nymph, that of his Heart might boast her Conquest,
My Pow'r might then reward his Faith to Cæsar.
Ant.
Ægypt has found the Face—but Antony
Has on himself impos'd Despair! the Space
Betwixt his Heart and Hope—is Earth from Heav'n!
Nor can my Sighs reproach her Cruelty,
Who knowing not her Pow'r, is innocent.
While in my Breast, the Anguish I retain,
Enduring Virtue triumphs in the Pain,
The Sighs of Honour are not Sighs in vain.
But shou'd my Falshood once reveal my Care,
To ask her Pity might deserve Despair.
When by her Eyes enflam'd, upon my Tongue,
Burning to speak, my secret Pangs have hung,
59
And bore me guiltless, from her Charms, away.
[Exit.
Cleo.
O Antony! had Cæsar not been Cæsar,
A Heart like thine had taught me gentler Passion.
But Thirst of Empire, seizing on my Soul,
Has drove me down the Stream of fierce Ambition.
Why did I dally with his gen'rous Flame?
Searching the Wound, I never meant to cure?
But Beauty, wild with Pow'r, delights to reign
O'er Hearts victorious, and enjoys their Pain;
And yet how greater far the glorious Lore,
To keep one Heart of Merit in our Pow'r,
Than making thousand from the Crowd, adore?
Be my sole Triumph, but of Cæsar sure,
My envy'd Fame shall with his conquer'd World endure.
| Caesar In Aegypt | |