Part 23

Crown could hardly be charged as author of a poem, in which this sarcasm occurred.

6. Alluding probably to the concluding lines of the Satire.

I loath the rabble; 'tis enough for me If Sedley, Shadwell, Shepherd, Wycherley, Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham, And some few more whom I omit to name, Approve my sense; I count their censure fame.

7. Dryden alludes to the censure past on himself, where it is said,

Five hundred verses in a morning writ. Prove him no more a poet than a wit.

8. This refers to the characters of Shadwell and Wycherley, which according to Dryden, the satirist seems to have misunderstood.

Of all our modern wits, none seems to me Once to have touched upon true comedy, But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley; Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart Great proofs of force of nature, none of art. With just bold strokes he dashes here and there, Shewing great mastery with little care; But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains, He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains; He frequently excels, and, at the least, Makes fewer faults than any of the rest.

9. "I have chiefly considered the fable, or plot, which all conclude to be the soul of a tragedy, which, with the ancients, is all ways to be found a reasonable soul, but with us, for the most part, a brutish, and often worse than brutish.

"And certainly there is not required much learning, or that a man must be some Aristotle and doctor of subtilties, to form a right judgement in this particular; common sense suffices; and rarely have I known women-judges mistaken in these points, where they have patience to think; and left to their own heads, they decide with their own sense. But if people are prepossessed, if they will judge of Rollo by Othello, and one crooked line by another, we can never have a certainty."

The tragedies of the last age considered, in a letter to Fleetwood Shepherd, by Thomas Rymer, Edit. 1678, p. 4.

PROLOGUE.

What flocks of critics hover here to-day, As vultures wait on armies for their prey, All gaping for the carcase of a play! With croaking notes they bode some dire event, And follow dying poets by the scent. Ours gives himself for gone; you've watched your time: He fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;-- And brings a tale which often has been told; As sad as Dido's; and almost as old. His hero, whom you wits his bully call, Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all: He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; Weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind. In short, a pattern, and companion fit, For all the keeping tonies of the pit. I could name more: a wife, and mistress too; Both (to be plain) too good for most of you: The wife well-natured, and the mistress true. Now, poets, if your fame has been his care, Allow him all the candour you can spare. A brave man scorns to quarrel once a-day; Like Hectors, in at every petty fray. Let those find fault whose wit's so very small, They've need to show that they can think at all; Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below. Fops may have leave to level all they can; As pigmies would be glad to lop a man. Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, We scarce could know they live, but that they bite. But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, For change, become their next poor tenant's guests; Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, And snatch the homely rasher from the coals: So you, retiring from much better cheer, For once, may venture to do penance here. And since that plenteous autumn now is past, Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MARK ANTONY. VENTIDIUS, _His General._ DOLABELLA, _his Friend._ ALEXAS, _the Queen's Eunuch._ SERAPION, _Priest of Isis._ MYRIS, _another Priest._ _Servants to_ ANTONY.

CLEOPATRA, _Queen of Ægypt._ OCTAVIA, ANTONY'S _Wife._ CHARMION, } CLEOPATRA'S _Maids._ IRAS, } ANTONY'S _two little Daughters._

SCENE.--_Alexandria._

ALL FOR LOVE;

OR, THE

WORLD WELL LOST.

## ACT I.

## SCENE I.--_The Temple of_ ISIS.

_Enter_ SERAPION, MYRIS, _Priests of_ ISIS.

_Ser._ Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocæ; panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, Sea-horses floundring in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.

_Enter_ ALEXAS _behind them._

_Myr._ Avert these omens, Heaven!

_Ser._ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more. My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene.

_Alex._ And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [_Shewing himself._ To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?

_Serap._ My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what I uttered was most true.

_Alex._ A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury.

_Serap._ I know my duty: This goes no farther.

_Alex._ 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatning, like a storm Just breaking on our heads.

_Serap._ Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.

_Myr._ Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a noble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost?

_Alex._ He thinks 'tis past recovery.

_Serap._ Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege.

_Alex._ O, there's the wonder. Mecænas and Agrippa, who can most With Cæsar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

_Serap._ 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black despair.

_Alex._ 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love.

_Serap._ If he be vanquished, Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivalled proud Rome, (dominion's other seat) And Fortune striding, like a vast Colossus, Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

_Alex._ Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature, Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish,--perish, Each by the other's sword; but, since our will Is lamely followed by our power, we must Depend on one; with him to rise or fall.

_Serap._ How stands the queen affected?

_Alex._ O she dotes, She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man, And winds herself about his mighty ruins; Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, And makes me use all means to keep him here, Whom I could wish divided from her arms, Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know The state of things; no more of your ill omens And black prognostics; labour to confirm The people's hearts.

_Enter_ VENTIDIUS, _talking aside with a Gentleman of_ ANTONY'S.

_Serap._ These Romans will o'erhear us. But, who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanour, and erected look, He's of no vulgar note.

_Alex._ O 'tis Ventidius, Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East, Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. When Antony returned from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

_Serap._ You seem to know him well.

_Alex._ Too well. I saw him in Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: A mortal foe he was to us, and Egypt. But,--let me witness to the worth I hate,-- A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave. He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes I know not what of ill To our affairs. Withdraw, to mark him better; And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. [_They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and_ VENTIDIUS, _with the other, comes forward to the front._

_Vent._ Not see him, say you? I say, I must, and will.

_Gent._ He has commanded, On pain of death, none should approach his presence.

_Vent._ I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, Give him new life.

_Gent._ He sees not Cleopatra.

_Vent._ Would he had never seen her!

_Gent._ He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of any thing, but thought; or, if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass; Sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries,--"Take all, The world's not worth my care."

_Vent._ Just, just his nature. Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, And bounds into a vice, that bears him far From his first course, and plunges him in ills: But, when his danger makes him find his fault, Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, Judging himself with malice to himself, And not forgiving what as man he did, Because his other parts are more than man.-- He must not thus be lost. [ALEXAS _and the Priests come forward._

_Alex._ You have your full instructions, now advance; Proclaim your orders loudly.

_Serap._ Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's. Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! Be this the general voice sent up to heaven, And every public place repeat this echo.

_Vent._ Fine pageantry! [_Aside._

_Serap._ Set before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in gladness.

_Vent._ Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of Antony, who revel When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame, You Romans, your great grandsires' images, For fear their souls should animate their marbles, To blush at their degenerate progeny.

_Alex._ A love, which knows no bounds to Antony, Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven Laboured for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour, And shed his better influence. Her own birth-day Our queen neglected, like a vulgar fate, That passed obscurely by.

_Vent._ Would it had slept, Divided far from his; till some remote And future age had called it out, to ruin Some other prince, not him!

_Alex._ Your emperor, Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

_Vent._ Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest? He knows him not his executioner. O, she has decked his ruin with her love, Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, And made perdition pleasing: She has left him The blank of what he was; I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him: Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus altered from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, And crampt within a corner of the world? O, Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God! Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, As bounty were thy being: rough in battle, As the first Romans, when they went to war; Yet, after victory, more pitiful Than all their praying virgins left at home!

_Alex._ Would you could add, to those more shining virtues, His truth to her who loves him.

_Vent._ Would I could not! But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee? Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets. You dare not fight for Antony; go pray, And keep your coward's holiday in temples. [_Exeunt_ ALEX. SERAP.

_Re-enter the Gentleman of_ M. ANTONY.

_2 Gent._ The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

_1 Gent._ I dare not disobey him. [_Going out with the other._

_Vent._ Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll venture. [_Withdraws._

_Enter_ ANTONY, _walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks._

_Ant._ They tell me, 'tis my birth-day, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Cæsar?

_Vent._ [_Aside._] On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

_Ant._ Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this! Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age.

_Vent._ How sorrow shakes him! [_Aside._ So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, And on the ground extends the noble ruin. [ANT. _having thrown himself down._ Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large. When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia, (For Cleopatra will not live to see it) Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar; Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.

_Ant._ Give me some music; look that it be sad: I'll sooth my melancholy, till I swell, And burst myself with sighing.-- [_Soft music._ 'Tis somewhat to my humour: stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it; My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot.

_Vent._ Methinks, I fancy Myself there too.

_Ant._ The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [_Soft music again._

_Vent._ I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [_Stands before him._

_Ant._ [_Starting up._] Art thou Ventidius?

_Vent._ Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last.

_Ant._ I'm angry.

_Vent._ So am I.

_Ant._ I would be private: leave me.

_Vent._ Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you.

_Ant._ Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

_Vent._ My emperor; the man I love next heaven: If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin: You're all that's good, and godlike.

_Ant._ All that's wretched. You will not leave me then?

_Vent._ 'Twas too presuming To say I would not; but I dare not leave you: And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

_Ant._ Now thou hast seen me, art thou satified? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much.

_Vent._ Look, emperor, this is no common dew, [_Weeping._ I have not wept this forty years; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness.

_Ant._ By heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death: they set my shame, That caused them, full before me.

_Vent._ I'll do my best.

_Ant._ Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine.--Nay, father!

_Vent._ Emperor.

_Ant._ Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory; The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so: but never more Shall that sound reach my ears.

_Vent._ I warrant you.

_Ant._ Actium, Actium! Oh!--

_Vent._ It sits too near you.

_Ant._ Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams.--

_Vent._ Out with it; give it vent.

_Ant._ Urge not my shame. I lost a battle,--

_Vent._ So has Julius done.

_Ant._ Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly: But Antony--

_Vent._ Nay, stop not.

_Ant._ Antony,-- Well, thou wilt have it,--like a coward, fled, Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius. Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

_Vent._ I did.

_Ant._ I'll help thee.--I have been a man, Ventidius.

_Vent._ Yes, and a brave one; but--

_Ant._ I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. In the full vintage of my flowing honours, Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; The wish of nations, and the willing world Received me as its pledge of future peace; I was so great, so happy, so beloved, Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, And worked against my fortune, chid her from me, And turned her loose; yet still she came again. My careless days, and my luxurious nights, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone, Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee curse me.

_Vent._ No.

_Ant._ Why?

_Vent._ You are too sensible already Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings; And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.

_Ant._ I know thou would'st.

_Vent._ I will.

_Ant._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Vent._ You laugh.

_Ant._ I do, to see officious love Give cordials to the dead.

_Vent._ You would be lost then?

_Ant._ I am.

_Vent._ I say you are not. Try your fortune.

_Ant._ I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate, Without just cause? No, when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping.

_Vent._ Cæsar thinks not so: He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be killed like Tully, would you? do, Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

_Ant._ No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

_Vent._ I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer.

_Ant._ Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

_Vent._ No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: By painful journeys, I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy.

_Ant._ Where left you them?

_Vent._ I said in Lower Syria.

_Ant._ Bring them hither; There may be life in these.

_Vent._ They will not come.

_Ant._ Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous.

_Vent._ Most firm and loyal.

_Ant._ Yet they will not march To succour me. Oh trifler!

_Vent._ They petition You would make haste to head them.

_Ant._ I'm besieged.

_Vent._ There's but one way shut up: How came I hither?

_Ant._ I will not stir.

_Vent._ They would perhaps desire A better reason.

_Ant._ I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

_Vent._ They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

_Ant._ What was't they said?

_Vent._ They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

_Ant._ Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life, No word of Cleopatra: she deserves More worlds than I can lose.

_Vent._ Behold, you Powers, To whom you have entrusted human kind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! I think the Gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands.

_Ant._ You grow presumptuous.

_Vent._ I take the privilege of plain love to speak.