Classic Poem

[Act. 1.]

Antonius.

Since cruell Heav'ns against me obstinate,
Since all mishappes of the round engin doo
Conspire my harme: since men, since powers divine,
Aire, earth, and Sea are all injurious:
And that my Queene her self, in whome I liv'd,
The Idoll of my hart, doth me pursue;
It's meete I dye For her have I forgone
My Country, Cæsar unto warre provok'd
(For just revenge of Sisters wrong my wife,
Who mov'de my Queene (ay me!) to jealousie)
For love of her, in her allurements caught
Abandon'd life, I honor have despisde,
Disdain'd my freends, and of statelye Rome
Despoilde the Empire of her best attire,
Contemn'd that power that made me so much fear'd,
A slave become unto her feeble face
O cruell, traitres, woman most unkinde,
Thou dost, forsworne, my love and life betraie:
And giv'st me up to ragefull enemie,
Which soone (ô foole!) will plague thy perjurye
Yelded Pelusium on this Countries shore,
Yelded thou hast my Shippes and men of warre,
That nought remaines (so destitute am I)
But these same armes which on my back I weare.
Thou should'st have had them too, and me unarm'de
Yeelded to Cæsar naked of defence
Which while I beare let Cæsar never thinke
Triumph of me shall his proud chariot grace
Not think with me his glory to adorne,
On me alive to use his victorie
Thou only Cleopatra triumph hast,
Thou only hast my freedome servile made,
Thou only hast me vanquisht: not by force
(For forste I cannot be) but by sweete baites
Of thy eyes graces, which did gaine so fast
upon my libertie, that nought remain'd.
None els hencefoorth, but thou my dearest Queene,
Shall glorie in commaunding Antonie
Have Cæsar fortune and the Gods his freends,
To him have Jove and fatall sisters given
The Scepter of the earth: he never shall
Subject my life to his obedience.
But when that Death, my glad refuge, shall have
Bounded the course of my unstedfast life,
And frosen corps under a marble colde
Within tombes bosome widdowe of my soule:
Then at his will let him it subject make:
Then what he will let Cæsar doo with me:
Make me limme after limme be rent: make me
My buriall take in sides of Thracian wolfe.
Poore Antonie ! alas what was the day,
The daies of losse that gained thee thy love!
Wretch Antony ! since then Mægæra pale
With Snakie haires enchain'd thy miserie
The fire thee burnt was never Cupids fire
(For Cupid beares not such a mortall brand)
It was some furies torch, Orestes torche,
which sometimes burnt his mother-murdering soule
(When wandring madde, rage boiling in his bloud,
He fled his fault which folow'd as he fled)
kindled within his bones by shadow pale
Of mother slaine return'd from Stygian lake.
Antony , poore Antony ! since that daie
Thy olde good hap did farre from thee retire.
Thy vertue dead: thy glory made alive
So ofte by martiall deeds is gone in smoke:
Since then the Baies so well thy forehead knewe
To Venus mirtles yeelded have their place:
Trumpets to pipes: field tents to courtly bowers:
Launces and Pikes to daunces and to feastes.
Since then, ô wretch! in stead of bloudy warres
Thou shouldst have made upon the Parthian Kings
For Romain honor filde by Crassus foile,
Thou threw'st thy Curiace off, and fearfull healme,
With coward courage unto Ægipts Queene
In haste to runne, about her necke to hang
Languishing in her armes thy Idoll made:
In summe given up to Cleopatras eies
Thou breakest at length from thence, as one encharm'd
Breakes from th'enchaunter that him strongly helde.
For thy first reason (spoyling of their force
the poisned cuppes of thy faire Sorceres)
Recur'd thy sprite: and then on every side
Thou mad'st againe the earth with Souldiours swarme
All Asia hidde: Euphrates bankes do tremble
To see at once so many Romanes there
Breath horror, rage, and with a threatning eye
In mighty squadrons crosse his swelling streames.
Nought seene but horse, and fier sparkling armes:
Nought heard but hideous noise of muttring troupes.
The Parth , the Mede , abandoning their goods
Hide them for feare in hilles of Hircanie ,
Redoubting thee. Then willing to besiege
The great Phraate head of Media ,
Thou campedst at her walles with vaine assault,
Thy engins fit (mishap!) not thither brought
So long thou stai'st, so long thou doost thee rest,
So long thy love with such things nourished
Reframes, reformes it selfe and stealingly
Retakes his force and rebecomes more great
For of thy Queene the lookes, the grace, the woords,
Sweetenes, alurements, amorous delights,
Entred againe thy soule, and day and night,
In watch, in sleepe, her Image follow'd thee:
Not dreaming but of her, repenting still
That thou for warre hadst such a Goddes left.
Thou car'st no more for Parth , nor Parthian bow,
Sallies, assaults, encounters, shocks, alarmes,
For diches, rampiers, wards, entrenched grounds:
Thy only care is sight of Nilus streames,
Sight of that face whose guilefull semblant doth
(Wandring in thee) infect thy tainted hart.
Her absence thee besottes: each hower, each hower
Of staie, to thee impatient seemes an age.
Enough of conquest, praise thou deem'st enough,
If soone enough the bristled fieldes thou see
Of fruitfull Ægipt , and the stranger floud
Thy Queenes faire eyes (another Pharos ) lights.
Returned loe, dishonoured, despisde,
In wanton love a woman thee misleades
Sunke in foule sinke: meane while respecting nought
Thy wife Octavia and her tender babes,
Of whom the long contempt against thee whets
The sword of Cæsar now thy Lord become
Lost thy great Empire, all those goodly townes
Reverenc'd thy name as rebells now thee leave:
Rise against thee, and to the ensignes flocke
Of conqu'ring Cæsar , who enwalles thee round
Cag'd in thy holde, scarse maister of thy selfe,
Late maister of so many nations
Yet, yet, which is of grief extreamest grief,
Which is yet of mischiefe highest mischiefe,
It's Cleopatra alas! alas, it's she,
It's she augments the torment of thy paine,
Betraies thy love, thy life (alas!) betraies,
Cæsar to please, whose grace she seekes to gaine:
With thought her Crowne to save, and fortune make
Onely thy foe which common ought have beene.
If her I alwaies lov'd, and the first flame
Of her heart-killing love shall burne me last:
Justly complaine I she disloyall is,
Nor constant is, even as I constant am,
To comfort my mishap, despising me
No more, then when the heavens favour'd me.
But ah! by nature women wav'ring are,
Each moment changing and rechanging mindes
Unwise, who blinde in them, thinkes loyaltie
Ever to finde in beauties company.

Chorus

The boyling tempest still
Makes not Sea waters fome:
Nor still the Northern blast
Disquiets quiet streames:
Nor who his chest to fill
Sayles to the morning beames,
On waves winde tosseth fast
Still kepes his Ship from home.
Nor Jove still downe doth cast
Inflam'd with bloudie ire
On man, on tree, on hill,
His darts of thundring fire:
Nor still the heat doth last
On face of parched plaine:
Nor wrinkled colde doth still
On frozen furrowes raigne.
But still as long as we
In this low world remaine,
Mishapps our dayly mates
Our lives do entertaine:
And woes which beare no dates
Still pearch upon our heads,
None go, but streight will be
Some greater in their Steads.
Nature made us not free
When first she made us live:
When we began to be,
To be began our woe:
Which growing evermore
As dying life dooth growe,
Do more and more us greeve,
And tire us more and more.
No stay in fading states,
For more to height they retch,
Their fellow miseries
The more to height do stretch.
They clinge even to the crowne,
And threatning furious wise
From tirannizing pates
Do often pull it downe.
In vaine on waves untride
to shunne them go we should
To Scythes and Massagetes
Who neare the Pole reside:
In vaine to boiling sandes
Which Phæbus battry beates,
For with us still they would
Cut seas and compasse landes
The darknes no more sure
To joyne with heavy night:
The light which guildes the dayes
To follow Titan pure:
No more the shadow light
The body to ensue:
Then wretchednes alwaies
Us wretches to pursue
O blest who never breath'd,
Or whome with pittie mov'de,
Death from his cradle reav'de,
And swadled in his grave:
And blessed also he
(As curse may blessing have)
Who low and living free
No princes charge hath prov'de.
By stealing sacred fire
Prometheus then unwise,
Provoking Gods to ire,
The heape of ills did sturre,
And sicknes pale and colde
Our ende which onward spurre,
To plague our hands too bolde
To filch the wealth of Skies.
In heavens hate since then
Of ill with ill enchain'd
We race of mortall men
full fraught our breasts have borne:
And thousand thousand woes
Our heav'nly soules now thorne,
Which free before from those
No earthly passion pain'd.
Warre and warres bitter cheare
Now long time with us staie,
And feare of hated foe
Still still encreaseth sore:
Our harmes worse dayly growe,
Lesse yesterdaye they were
Then now, and will be more
To morowe then to daye