Classic Poem

Act. 5.

Cleopatra Euphron Children of Cleopatra. Charmion. Eras.

Cleop.

O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott!
O plaguy love! ô most detested brand!
O wretched joyes! ô beauties miserable!
O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie!
O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable!
O Antonie by my fault buriable!
O hellish worke of heav'n! alas! the wrath
Of all the Gods at once on us is falne.
Unhappie Queene! ô would I in this world
The wandring light of day had never sene?
Alas! of mine the plague and poison I
The crowne have lost my ancestors me left,
This Realme I have to straungers subject made,
And robd my children of their heritage.
Yet this is nought (alas!) unto the price
Of you deare husband, whome my snares entrap'd:
Of you, whom I have plagu'd, whom I have made
With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe:
Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord,
Whome I of Empire, honor, life have spoil'd.
O hurtfull woman! and can I yet live,
Yet longer live in this Ghost-haunted tombe?
Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy,
Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell?
O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death!
O Styx ! ô Phlegethon ! you brookes of hell!
O Impes of Night! Euph. Live for your childrens sake:
Let not your death of kingdome them deprive
Alas what shall they do? who will have care?
Who will preserve this royall race of yours?
Who pittie take? even now me seemes I see
These little soules to servile bondage falne,
And borne in triumph. Cl Ah most miserable!
Euph. Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound
At their weake backs Cl. Ah Gods what pittie more!
Euph. Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend
Cl. Never on us, good Gods, such mischiefe sende.
Euph. And pointed at with fingers as they go.
Cl. Rather a thousand deaths. Euph. Lastly his knife
Some cruell caytive in their bloud embrue
Cl. Ah my heart breaks. By shadie bankes of hell,
By fieldes wheron the lonely Ghosts do treade,
By my soule, and the soule of Antonie
I you beseche, Euphron , of them have care.
Be their good Father, let your wisedome lett
That they fall not into this Tyrants handes.
Rather conduct them where their freezed locks
Black Æthiopes to neighbour Sunne do shewe;
On wavie Ocean at the waters will;
On barraine cliffes of snowie Caucasus ;
To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares,
And rather, rather unto every coaste,
To ev'rie land and sea: for nought I feare
As rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench
Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:
Good Isis you to place of safetie guide,
Farre from our foes, where you your lives may leade
In free estate devoid of servile dread
Remember not, my children, you were borne
Of such a Princelie race: remember not
So manie brave Kings which have Egipt rul'de
In right descent your ancestors have bene:
That this great Antonie your Father was,
Hercules bloud, and more then he in praise.
For your high courage such remembrance will,
Seing your fall with burning rages fill.
Who knowes if that your hands false Destinie
The Scepters promis'd of imperiouse Rome ,
In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare,
Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough?
Ah learne t'endure: your birth and high estate
Forget, my babes, and bend to force of fate.
Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos'de
With pitie and paine, my self with death enclos'de,
My breath doth faile. Farwell for evermore,
Your Sire and me you shall see never more.
Farwell swete care, farwell. Chil Madame Adieu
Cl. Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde
I can no more, I die. Eras. Madame, alas!
And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to us.
Eup. Come children. Chil We come Eup. Follow we our chaunce.
The Gods shall guide us. Char. O too cruell lott!
O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,
What shall we do, alas! if murthring darte
Of death arrive while that in slumbring swound
Half dead she lie with anguish overgone?
Er. Her face is frozen. Ch. Madame for Gods love
Leave us not thus: bidd us yet first farwell
Alas! wepe over Antonie : Let not
His bodie be without due rites entomb'de.
Cl. Ah, ah. Char. Madame. Cle. Ay me! Ch. How fainte she is?
Cl. My Sisters, holde me up. How wretched I,
How cursed am! and was ther ever one
By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?
Ah, weeping Niobe , although thy hart
Beholdes it selfe enwrap'd in causefull woe
For thy dead children, that a sencelesse rocke
With griefe become, on Sipylus thou stand'st
In endles teares: yet didst thou never feele
The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.
Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule have lost,
And lost their Father, more then them I waile,
Lost this faire realme; yet me the heavens wrathe
Into a Stone not yet transformed hath.
Phaetons sisters, daughters of the Sunne,
Which waile your brother falne into the streames
Of stately Po : the Gods upon the bankes
Your bodies to banke-loving Alders turn'd
For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,
And heaven pittiles laughes at my woe,
Revives, renewes it still: and in the ende
(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.
Die Cleopatra then, no longer stay
From Antonie , who thee at Styx attends:
Goe joine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no more
Without his love within these tombes enclos'd.
Eras. Alas! yet let us wepe, lest sodaine death
From him our teares, and those last duties take
Unto his tombe we owe. Ch. Ah let us wepe
While moisture lasts, then die before his feete
Cl. who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares
My boiling anguish worthilie to waile,
Waile thee Antonie, Antonie my heart?
Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!
Yet have mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drie
By long beweeping my disastred harmes.
Now reason is that from my side they sucke
First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.
Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,
And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.
Moist it, and heate it newe, and never stopp,
All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp
Cha. Antonie take our teares: this is the last
Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,
Before we die. Er. These sacred obsequies
Take Antony , and take them in good parte.
Cl. O Goddesse thou whom Cyprus doth adore,
Venus of Paphos , bent to worke us harme
For olde Julus broode, if thou take care
Of Cæsar , why of us tak'st thou no care?
Antonie did descend, as well as he,
From thine owne Sonne by long enchained line:
And might have rul'd by one and self same fate,
True Trojan bloud, the statelie Romain state.
Antonie , poore Antonie , my deare soule,
Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,
Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,
And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz'd.
Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of love,
Which yet for tents to warlike Mars did serve,
Lock'd up in lidds (as faire daies cherefull light
Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night.
Antonie by our true loves I thee beseche,
And by our hearts swete sparks have sett on fire,
Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe
Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie:
My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine,
And take me with thee to the hellish plaine,
Thy wife, thy frend: heare Antonie , ô heare
My sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there.
Lived thus long, the winged race of yeares
Ended I have as Destinie decreed,
Flourish'd and raign'd, and take just revenge
Of him who me both hated and despisde.
Happie, alas too happie! if of Rome
Only the fleete had hither never come
And now of me an Image great shall goe
Under the earth to bury there my woe
What say I? where am I? ô Cleopatra ,
Poore Cleopatra , griefe thy reason reaves.
No, no, most happie in this happles case,
To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace:
By bodie joynde with thine, my mouth with thine,
My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes have dried:
To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest,
And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest.
The sharpest torment in my heart I feele
Is that I staie from thee, my heart, this while
Die will I straight now, now streight will I die,
And streight with thee a wandring shade will be,
Under the Cypres trees thou haunt'st alone,
Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone
But yet I stay, and yet thee overlive,
That ere I die due rites I may thee give.
A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare,
With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne:
My haire shall serve for thy oblations,
My boiling teares for thy effusions,
Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame
(Which burnt thy heart on me enamour'd) came.
Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eies
Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame.
Mine can no more, consumed by the coales
Which from my breast, as from a furnace, rise.
Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes,
With violent hands teare of your hanging haire,
Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke
(Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe?
I spent in teares, not able more to spende,
But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?
Then lett me kisse you, you faire eies, my light,
Front seate of honor, face most fierce, most faire!
O neck, ô armes, ô hands, ô breast where death
(Oh mischief) comes to choake up vitall breath.
A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more
Let you my mouth for honors farewell give:
That in this office weake my limmes may growe,
Fainting on you, and fourth my soule may flowe.