Pompey the Great A Tragedy |
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| 3. | Scene the Third. |
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 | Pompey the Great |  |
Scene the Third.
Cornelia, Cleopatra, Philip, Charmion, Achoreus.Cleop.
Alas, in's Looks I see
Th'unlucky marks of some ill Angury;
Speak good Achoreus, but without disguise,
Banish my Fears, or else my Joy surprize.
Acho.
VVhen Cæsar first the Horrid Treason knew—
Cleop.
Ah! 'tis not that which I expect from you;
I know he Barricadoed up the Vault,
Through which they hop't to have their Succours brought,
There 'gainst Photinus all his Force he drew,
VVho found the Recompence to Treason due.
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Escapes with ease at the abandon'd Gate,
Him the King follows, whilst Antonius Lands,
To joyn with Cæsar all the Roman Bands;
I doubt not but they've Fought, and by this time
Achillas is Rewarded for his Crime.
Acho.
Madam, Success still waits on Cæsar's Sword.
Cleop.
That's not the business, has he kept his Word?
And is my Brother safe?
Acho.
All he could do
He has perform'd.
Cleop.
That's all I wish to know.
Madam, you see the Gods my Pray'rs have heard.
Cornel.
The Punishment deserv'd, is but Deferr'd.
Cleop.
That now he's Sav'd, declares Heav'n is appeas'd.
Acho.
At least he had been, if himself had pleas'd.
Cleop.
Thy doubtfull Words still hold me in suspence;
Explane at last their ill Agreeing Sense.
Acho.
Neither your Vows, nor Cæsars, and your Care,
Were Arms enough against his High despair;
Madam, he's Dead, yet all those Glories wait
Upon him that can Crown a Princes fate,
Nearer his fall his Virtue more revives,
Changing his Own for many Roman Lives;
To his brave Charge Antonius 'gan to yield,
And our disordered Troops scarce kept the Field,
When Cæsar comes, whose presence never fails
Of doubtfull Chance to turn the Tottering Scales;
There at his Masters feet Achillas fell
The Traitor ne're deserv'd to Dye so well.
Were Arms enough against his High despair;
Madam, he's Dead, yet all those Glories wait
Upon him that can Crown a Princes fate,
Nearer his fall his Virtue more revives,
Changing his Own for many Roman Lives;
To his brave Charge Antonius 'gan to yield,
And our disordered Troops scarce kept the Field,
When Cæsar comes, whose presence never fails
Of doubtfull Chance to turn the Tottering Scales;
There at his Masters feet Achillas fell
The Traitor ne're deserv'd to Dye so well.
Ah! too weak Providence, which cannot free
The Bed of Honour from Adultery,
Cæsar crys out aloud to save the King,
Words which instead of Comfort Terrour bring;
For he suspects that from Design they came,
To keep him for a Scaffolds publique shame,
His swelling Heart with this mistake abus'd,
Seeks for that Death, which every where's refus'd:
Our Ranks he peirces through and through, and shows
What Valour can, when to Despair it grows;
His Bravest men lay Breathless on the ground,
And he himself was now Incompass'd round;
Wearied at length, and out of Breath, he spies
A Vessel near the Shore and thither flies,
After their King the People press so fast,
The Bark o'recharged perishes at last;
Dying in Arms new Glory he receives,
To you a Crown, to Cæsar Conquest leaves,
Who on the place Proclames you Ægyts Queen;
Yet in his Face strange marks of Grief are seen,
He mourns his Fall, though none of his did touch
The Life wherein you are concern'd so much:
But here he comes, who better can relate
His Sense of that Unhappy Princes Fate.
The Bed of Honour from Adultery,
Cæsar crys out aloud to save the King,
Words which instead of Comfort Terrour bring;
For he suspects that from Design they came,
To keep him for a Scaffolds publique shame,
His swelling Heart with this mistake abus'd,
Seeks for that Death, which every where's refus'd:
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What Valour can, when to Despair it grows;
His Bravest men lay Breathless on the ground,
And he himself was now Incompass'd round;
Wearied at length, and out of Breath, he spies
A Vessel near the Shore and thither flies,
After their King the People press so fast,
The Bark o'recharged perishes at last;
Dying in Arms new Glory he receives,
To you a Crown, to Cæsar Conquest leaves,
Who on the place Proclames you Ægyts Queen;
Yet in his Face strange marks of Grief are seen,
He mourns his Fall, though none of his did touch
The Life wherein you are concern'd so much:
But here he comes, who better can relate
His Sense of that Unhappy Princes Fate.
| Pompey the Great | |