John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Vent. And what’s this toy.

  In balance with your fortune, honour, fame? 500

  Ant. What is’t, Ventidius? — it outweighs them all;

  Why, we have more than conquered Cæsar now:

  My queen’s not only innocent, but loves me.

  This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin!

  “But, could she ‘scape without me, with what haste 505

  Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore,

  And never look behind!”

  Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,

  And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

  Vent. I’ll rather die, than take it. Will you go? 510

  Ant. Go! whither? Go from all that’s excellent?

  Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,

  That I should go from her, who sets my love

  Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods,

  Give to your boy, your Cæsar, 515

  This rattle of a globe to play withal,

  This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off:

  I’ll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

  Cleo. She’s wholly yours. My heart’s so full of joy,

  That I shall do some wild extravagance 520

  Of love, in public; and the foolish world,

  Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.

  Vent. O women! women! women! all the gods

  Have not such power of doing good to man,

  As you of doing harm. [Exit. 525

  Ant. Our men are armed: —

  Unbar the gate that looks to Cæsar’s camp:

  I would revenge the treachery he meant me;

  And long security makes conquest easy.

  I’m eager to return before I go; 530

  For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick

  On my remembrance. — How I long for night!

  That both the sweets of mutual love may try,

  And triumph once o’er Cæsar ere we die. [Exeunt.

  ACT III

  At one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of Egyptians: at the other ANTONY and Romans. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on ANTONY’S part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on CLEOPATRA’S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of Egyptians. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY.

  Ant. I thought how those white arms would fold me in,

  And strain me close, and melt me into love;

  So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards,

  And added all my strength to every blow. 5

  Cleo. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms!

  You’ve been too long away from my embraces;

  But, when I have you fast, and all my own,

  With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs,

  I’ll say, you were unkind, and punish you, 10

  And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

  Ant. My brighter Venus!

  Cleo. O my greater Mars!

  Ant. Thou join’st us well, my love!

  Suppose me come from the Phlegræan plains, 15

  Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword,

  And mountain-tops paired off each other blow,

  To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess!

  Let Cæsar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan,

  In thy embraces I would be beheld 20

  By heaven and earth at once;

  And make their envy what they meant their sport?

  Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,

  With awful state, regardless of their frowns,

  As their superior gods. 25

  There’s no satiety of love in thee:

  Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring

  Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,

  And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;

  And I grow rich by giving. 30

  Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart

  Alex. Oh, now the danger’s past, your general comes!

  He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs;

  But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on,

  As envying your success. 35

  Ant. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me:

  He never flattered me in any vice,

  But awes me with his virtue: even this minute

  Methinks, he has a right of chiding me.

  Lead to the temple: I’ll avoid his presence; 40

  It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest. [As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.

  Vent. Emperor!

  Ant. ’Tis the old argument; I pr’ythee, spare me. [Looking back.

  Vent. But this one hearing, emperor.

  Ant. Let go 45

  My robe; or, by my father Hercules —

  Vent. By Hercules’ father, that’s yet greater,

  I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

  Ant. Thou see’st we are observed; attend me here,

  And I’ll return. [Exit. 50

  Vent. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him;

  I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;

  And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him:

  His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes,

  As would confound their choice to punish one, 55

  And not reward the other.

  Enter ANTONY

  Ant. We can conquer,

  You see, without your aid.

  We have dislodged their troops; 60

  They look on us at distance, and, like curs

  Scaped from the lion’s paws, they bay far off,

  And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.

  Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,

  Lie breathless on the plain. 65

  Vent. ’Tis well; and he,

  Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more.

  Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain

  An easier peace, while Cæsar doubts the chance

  Of arms — 70

  Ant. Oh, think not on’t, Ventidius!

  The boy pursues my ruin, he’ll no peace;

  His malice is considerable in advantage.

  Oh, he’s the coolest murderer! so staunch,

  He kills, and keeps his temper. 75

  Vent. Have you no friend

  In all his army, who has power to move him?

  Mæcenas, or Agrippa, might do much

  Ant. They’re both too deep in Cæsar’s interests.

  We’ll work it out by dint of sword, or perish. 80

  Vent. Fain I would find some other.

  Ant. Thank thy love.

  Some four or five such victories as this

  Will save thy further pains.

  Vent. Expect no more; Cæsar is on his guard: 85

  I know, sir, you have conquered against odds;

  But still you draw supplies from one poor town,

  And of Egyptians: he has all the world,

  And, at his beck, nations come pouring in,

  To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again. 90

  Ant. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search

  For foreign aids? — to hunt my memory,

  And range all o’er a waste and barren place,

  To find a friend? The wretched have no friends.

  Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome, 95

  Whom Cæsar loves beyond the love of women:

  He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax,

  From that hard rugged image melt him down,

  And mould him in what softer form he pleased.

  Vent. Him would I see; that man, of all the world; 100

  Just such a one we want.

  Ant. He love me too;

  I was his soul; he lived not but in me:

  We were so closed within each other’s breasts,

  The rivets were not found, that joined us
first. 105

  That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt,

  As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost;

  We were one mass; we could not give or take,

  But from the same; for he was I, I he.

  Vent. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside. 110

  Ant. After this,

  I need not tell his name;— ’twas Dolabella.

  Vent. He’s now in Cæsar’s camp.

  Ant. No matter where,

  Since he’s no longer mine. He took unkindly, 115

  That I forbade him Cleopatra’s sight,

  Because I feared he loved her: he confessed,

  He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled;

  For ‘twere impossible that two, so one,

  Should not have loved the same. When he departed, 120

  He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

  Vent. It argues, that he loved you more than her,

  Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous,

  And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you.

  Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now. 125

  Vent. Perhaps

  He has thus long been labouring for your peace.

  Ant. Would he were here!

  Vent. Would you believe he loved you?

  I read your answer in your eyes, you would. 130

  Not to conceal it longer, he has sent

  A messenger from Cæsar’s camp, with letters.

  Ant. Let him appear

  Vent. I’ll bring him instantly. [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with DOLABELLA.

  Ant. ’Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him. 135

  Art thou returned at last, my better half?

  Come, give me all myself!

  Let me not live,

  If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,

  Was ever half so fond. 140

  Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busy

  About a nobler work; she’s new come home,

  Like a long-absent man, and wanders o’er

  Each room, a stranger to her own, to look

  If all be safe. 145

  Ant. Thou hast what’s left of me;

  For I am now so sunk from what I was,

  Thou find’st me at my lowest water-mark.

  The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,

  Are all dried up, or take another course: 150

  What I have left is from my native spring;

  I’ve still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,

  And lifts me to my banks.

  Dola. Still you are lord of all the world to me.

  Ant. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. 155

  If I had any joy when thou wert absent,

  I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed

  Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella!

  Thou has beheld me other than I am.

  Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled 160

  With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me?

  With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,

  To worship my uprising? — menial kings

  Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,

  Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, 165

  And, at my least command, all started out,

  Like racers to the goal.

  Dola. Slaves to your fortune.

  Ant. Fortune is Cæsar’s now; and what am I?

  Vent. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter. 170

  Ant. Is this friendly done?

  Dola. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him;

  Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide;

  Why am I else your friend?

  Ant. Take heed, young man, 175

  How thou upbraid’st my love: The queen has eyes,

  And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember,

  When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld’st her first,

  As accessary to thy brother’s death?

  Dola. Spare my remembrance; ’twas a guilty day, 180

  And still the blush hangs here.

  Ant. To clear herself,

  For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.

  Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed,

  The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; 185

  The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:

  Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;

  Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

  Dola. No more; I would not hear it.

  Ant. Oh, you must! 190

  She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,

  And cast a look so languishingly sweet,

  As if, secure of all beholder’s hearts,

  Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,

  Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds, 195

  That played about her face. But if she smiled

  A darting glory seemed to blazed abroad,

  That men’s desiring eyes were never wearied,

  But hung upon the object: To soft flutes

  The silver oars kept time; and while they played, 200

  The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;

  And both to thought. ’Twas heaven, or somewhat more;

  For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds

  Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath

  To give their welcome voice. 205

  Then, Dolabella, where was then they soul?

  Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder?

  Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes

  And whisper in my ear — Oh, tell her not

  That I accused her with my brother’s death? 210

  Dola. And should my weakness be a plea for yours?

  Mine was an age when love might be excused,

  When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth

  Made it a debt to nature. Yours —

  Vent. Speak boldly. 215

  Yours, he would say, in your declining age,

  When no more heat was left but what you forced,

  When all the sap was needful for the trunk,

  When it went down, then you constrained the course,

  And robbed from nature, to supply desire; 220

  In you (I would not use so harsh a word)

  ’Tis but plain dotage.

  Ant. Ha!

  Dola. ’Twas urged too home. —

  But yet the loss was private, that I made; 225

  ’Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions;

  I had no world to lose, no people’s love.

  Ant. This from a friend?

  Dola. Yes, Antony, a true one;

  A friend so tender, that each word I speak 230

  Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear.

  Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide!

  To Cæsar I excuse you.

  Ant. O ye gods!

  Have I then lived to be excused to Cæsar? 235

  Dola. As to your equal.

  Ant. Well, he’s but my equal:

  While I wear this he never shall be more.

  Dola. I bring conditions from him.

  Ant. Are they noble? 240

  Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he

  Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour

  Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him;

  For nature meant him from an usurer:

  He’s fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. 245

  Vent. Then, granting this,

  What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper

  To honourable terms?

  Ant. I was my Dolabella, or some god.

  Dola. Nor I, nor yet Mæcenas, nor Agrippa: 250

  They were your enemies; and I, a friend,

  Too weak alone; yet ’twas a Roman’s deed.

  Ant. ’Twas like a Roman done: show me that man,
r />   Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour;

  Let me but see his face. 255

  Vent. That task is mine,

  And, Heaven, thou know’st how pleasing. [Exit VENT.

  Dola. You’ll remember

  To whom you stand obliged?

  Ant. When I forget it 260

  Be thou unkind, and that’s my greatest curse.

  My queen shall thank him too,

  Dola. I fear she will not.

  Ant. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella!

  Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? 265

  Dola. I would not see her lost.

  Ant. When I forsake her,

  Leave me my better stars! for she has truth

  Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her,

  At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; 270

  But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me

  For loving her too well. Could I do so?

  Dola. Yes; there’s my reason.

  Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading ANTONY’S two little Daughters

  Ant. Where? — Octavia there! [Starting back. 275

  Vent. What, is she poison to you? — a disease?

  Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:

  Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature

  No secret call, no whisper they are yours?

  Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them 280

  With kinder yes. If you confess a man,

  Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.

  Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,

  To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings,

  To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out 285

  And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

  Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

  Vent. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown

  To Cleopatra’s guards.

  Dola. Yet, are you cold? 290

  Octav. Thus long I have attended for my welcome;

  Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.

  Who am I?

  Ant. Cæsar’s sister.

  Octav. That’s unkind. 295

  Had I been nothing more than Cæsar’s sister,

  Know, I had still remained in Cæsar’s camp:

  But your Octavia, your much injured wife,

  Though banished from your bed, driven from your house,

  In spite of Cæsar’s sister, still is yours. 300

  ’Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,

  And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;

  But a wife’s virtue still surmounts that pride.

  I come to claim you as my own; to show

  My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: 305

  Your hand, my lord; ’tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking his hand.

  Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv’st it.

  Dola. On my soul,