ANT. Fulvia is dead.

ENO. Sir?

ANT. Fulvia is dead.

ENO. Fulvia?

ANT. Dead.

ENO. Why, fir, give the gods a thankful facrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it fhows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the cafe to be lamented: this grief is crown'd with confolation; your old finock brings forth a new petticoat-and, indeed, the tears live in an onion, that fhould water this forrow.

ANT. The business she hath broached in the state, Cannot endure my abfence.

ENO. And the business you have broach'd here cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends on your abode.

ANT. No more light anfwers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the queen,
And get her love to part. For not alone
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
Do strongly speak to us; but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home: Sextus Pompeius
Hath given the dare to Cæfar, and commands
The empire of the fea: our flippery people
(Whofe love is never link'd to the deferver,
Till his deserts are paft) begin to hrow
Pompey the great, and all his dignities,
VOL. V.

U

Upon his fon; who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, ftands up
For the main foldier: whofe quality, going on,
The fides o' the world may danger: Much is breeding,
Which, like the courfer's hair, hath yet but life,
And not a ferpent's poifon. Say, our pleasure,
To fuch whofe place is under us, requires
Our quick remove from hence.

ENO. I fhall do't.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS,

CLEO. Where is he?

and ALEXAS.

CHAR. I did not fee him fince.

CLEO. See where he is, who's with him, what he does:

I did not fend you ;-If you find him sad,

Say, I am dancing; if in mirth, report

That I am fudden fick : Quick, and return. [Exit ALEX. CHAR. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce

The like from him.

CLEO. What fhould I do, I do not?

CHAR. In each thing give him way, crofs him in nothing. CLEO. Thou teachest like a fool : the way to lose him. CHAR. Tempt him not fo too far: I wish, forbear; In time we hate that which we often fear.

Enter ΑΝΤΟΝΥ.

But here comes Antony.

CLEO. I am fick, and fullen.

ANT. I am forry to give breathing to my purpose,CLEO. Help me away, dear Charmian, I fhall fall;

It cannot be thus long, the fides of nature

Will not fuftain it.

ANT. Now, my deareft queen,

CLEO. Pray you, ftand further from me.

ANT. What's the matter?

CLEO. I know, by that fame eye,there's fome good news. What fays the married woman?-You may go; 'Would, she had never given you leave to come!

Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here,

I have no power upon you; hers
ANT. The gods best know,-
CLEO. O, never was there queen

you are.

So mightily betray'd! Yet, at the first,
I saw the treasons planted.

ANT. Cleopatra,—

CLEO. Why should I think, you can be mine, and true, Though you in fwearing shake the throned gods, Who have been falfe to Fulvia? Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, Which break themselves in fwearing!

ANT. Moft fweet queen,

CLEO. Nay, pray you, feek no colour for

your going,
But bid farewell, and go: when you fued staying,
Then was the time for words: No going then ;-
Eternity was in our lips, and eyes;

Blifs in our brows' bent; none our parts fo poor,
But was a race of heaven: They are fo ftill,

Or thou, the greatest foldier of the world,

Art turn'd the greatest liar.

ANT. How now, lady!

CLEO. I would, I had thy inches; thou should'st know, There were a heart in Egypt.

ANT. Hear me, queen :

The ftrong neceffity of time commands

Our fervices a while; but my fuil heart

Remains in use with you. Our Italy

Shines o'er with civil fwords: Sextus Pompeius
Makes his approaches to the port of Rome :
Equality of two domestic powers

Breeds fcrupulous faction: The hated, grown to strength
Are newly grown to love: the condemn'd Pompey,
Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace

Into the hearts of fuch as have not thriv'd
Upon the present ftate, whofe numbers threaten;
And quietnefs, grown fick of reft, would purge
By any defperate change: My more particular,
And that which moft with you fhould fafe my going,
Is Fulvia's death.

CLEO. Though age from folly could not give me freedom It does from childifhnefs:-Can Fulvia die?

ANT. She's dead, my queen :

Look here, and, at thy fovereign leisure, read
The garboils fhe awak'd; at the last, best:
See, when, and where fhe died.

CLEO. O moft falfe love!

Where be the facred vials thou should'ft fill
With forrowful water? Now I fee, I fee,
In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd fhall be.
ANT. Quarrel no more, but be prepar❜d to know
The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,

As

you fhall give the advice: Now, by the fire,
That quickens Nilus' flime, I go from hence,
Thy foldier, fervant; making peace, or war,
As thou affect'ft.

CLEO. Cut my lace, Charmian, come ;-
But let it be.—I am quickly ill, and well:
So Antony loves.

ANT. My precious queen, forbear;

And give true evidence to his love, which ftands

An honourable trial.

CLEO. SO Fulvia told me.

I pr'ythee, turn afide, and weep for her;
Then bid adieu to me, and fay, the tears
Belong to Egypt: Good now, play one scene
Of excellent diffembling; and let it look
Like perfect honour.

ANT. You'll heat my blood; no more.

CLEO. You can do better yet; but this is meetly. ANT. Now, by my fword,

CLEO. And target,-Still he mends;

But this is not the beft: Look, pr'ythee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become

The carriage of his chafe.

ANT. I'll leave you, lady.

CLEO. Courteous lord, one word.

Sir, you and I muft part,-but that's not it:
Sir, you and I have lov'd, but there's not it;
That you know well: Something it is I would,-
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,

And I am all forgotten.

ANT. But that your royalty

Holds idleness your fubject, I fhould take you
For idlenefs itself.

CLEO. 'Tis fweating labour,

To bear fuch idleness fo near the heart

As Cleopatra this. But, fir, forgive me;

Since my becomings kill me, when they do not
Eye well to you: Your honour calls you hence;
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! upon your
Sit laurel'd victory! and smooth fuccefs

fword