English

Act. 3. Scen. I.

Charmion, Achoreus.


CHARMION.

Yes, whilst the King himself is gone to meet
Caesar , and lay his Scepter at his Feet.
To her Appartment Cleopatra went,
And there unmov'd expects his Complement.
What words have you to cloath this Humour in?

ACHOREUS.

'Tis Noble Pride and worthy of a Queen.
Who with Heroick courage does make good
The Honour of her Rank, and of her Blood.
May I speak to Her?

Act 2. Scen. I.

Cleopatra, Charmion.

CLEOPATRA.

I Love him, but a Flame so much refin'd,
How bright soever, dazles not my mind:
For Virtue makes my inclination know,
What Caesars Mistress does to Pompey owe:
And none dares own a passion so sublime,
But she that scorn's the shaddow of a crime.
I should but smal Respect to Caesar pay,
To seek his love in an unhandsom way.

CHARMION

Act. I. Scen. I.

Ptolomey, Achillas, Photinus, Septimius.

POMPEY.

Fate hath declar'd her self, and we may see
Th' Intrigue of the great Rivals Destiny:
That quarrel which did all the Gods divide,
Pharsalia hath the Honour to decide.
Whose Rivers swelling with new bloody Tides
(Sent thither from so many Parricides)
The Horrour of torn Ensigns, Chariots, Shields,
Spread in Confusion o're th'infected Fields;
Those Slaughter'd heaps whose shades no rest obtain'd

The Printer to the Reader I Hope you expect no Eloquence from a Printer, nor Regularity in a Preface, which hath nothing to say to you, but that Pompey being a Translation out of the French of Monsieur Corneille, the band that did it is responsible for nothing but the English, and the Songs between the Acts, which were added only to lengthen the Play, and make it fitter for the Stage, when those that could not be resisted were resolved to have it acted, and that no abuses of Transcribers (though they were numerous) could have prevail'd to send it to the Press, if the Person most concern'd h

To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate
The things which were but are no more;
That thou mightest know the worldly way,
And knowing, have no timid fear
To ever stir thy peaceful breast.
No fate like theirs awaits for thee;
For Fortune's maid shall tend with care
Thy every nod and beck — yes, place
Upon thy queenly brow a crown.
The " starry crown " by Freedom worn!

'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base,
No stone thy corner marks; for that
What carest thou? For boasted pride?
Thy frame is of the sturdy oak,

Then Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen,
On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills
Securely built her throne. The world
Then saw a mighty power rise
In splendor great, as does the sun
On some young, swift-winged morn of June.
A brighter dawning seemed to break;
Another life was lived, — for through
The Roman vein there coursed a blood,
A fiery burning blood of ire,
That rose and conquered all the world.
Great Caesar led her legions forth
From victory on to victory,
And hung her royal pennons high

Next Greece, the fairest nymph that trod
This belted globe upon, once shone
As shines the Morning Orb, long ere
The Dawn the rosy East has kissed;
High reared her sacred temples in
Olympia's shady groves, and built
There sacred altars to her gods.

Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat
In council with their fellow gods.
And Homer, fiery bard, was first
To smite the chords of nature's lyre;
Sweet sang he till the earth was filled
With rarest strains of rapturous song!
Then art and letters blew and blushed,

The nations all their day shall have;
Yet each in turn shall rise and fall,
As falls the dark brown autumn leaf;
Or as those dread sky-kissing tides,
Which toss frail barks high upon
Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore, —
Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away.

— Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile,
And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished;
Her snowy sails sea-ports bedecked,
And deeply ploughed the rolling main,
Or clave the placid lakes, as does
The gentle swan, when some soft breeze

Of thee
Thus has time passed with naught more said;
For man in his pedantic art
Soars far in feeble flights of song
From Nature's heart, and thus he fails
With Nature's God to hold commune!
The bard has slept, dreamed many a dream,
But failed to dream one dream of thee.
High hangs his lyre on willow reed,
And sitting 'neath yon shady nook,
He fails to catch one note of thy
Immortal song that fills the air.
Awake, O bard, from sleep so deep!
Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe

A century lonely hast thou stood
Here all forsaken and forgot!
All men failed thee to visit save
Some idle lover of sylvan haunts
Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot,
And cast a pensive eye upon
This lovely glade, thy sole abode
(Full lost in these continuous woods),
And brooding o'er thy lowly lot,
Oft thus did muse: " This cabin lone
Here stands to tell the tale of him,
Back-woodsman brave, who having scaled
The mystic mountains ne'er returned
To them, though loved yet left behind;