The False One Part 3

I hear their Trumpets, 'tis too late to stagger, Give me the head, and be you confident: Hail Conquerour, and head of all the world, Now this head's off.

_Caesar_. Ha?

_Pho._ Do not shun me, _Caesar_, From kingly _Ptolomy_ I bring this present, The Crown, and sweat of thy _Pharsalian_ labour: The goal and mark of high ambitious honour.

Before thy victory had no name, _Caesar_, Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompence, Thou dreamst of being worthy, and of war; And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers, Here they take life: here they inherit honour, Grow fixt, and shoot up everlasting triumphs: Take it, and look upon thy humble servant, With n.o.ble eyes look on the Princely _Ptolomy_, That offers with this head (most mighty _Caesar_) What thou would'st once have given for it, all _Egypt_.

_Ach._ Nor do not question it (most royal Conquerour) Nor dis-esteem the benefit that meets thee, Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer: Yet let me tell thee (most imperious _Caesar_) Though he oppos'd no strength of Swords to win this, Nor labour'd through no showres of darts, and lances: Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly, An inward war: he was his Grand-sires Guest; Friend to his Father, and when he was expell'd And beaten from this Kingdom by strong hand, And had none left him, to restore his honour, No hope to find a friend, in such a misery; Then in stept _Pompey_; took his feeble fortune: Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again, This was a love to _Caesar_.

_Sceva._ Give me, hate, G.o.ds.

_Pho._ This _Caesar_ may account a little wicked, But yet remember, if thine own hands, Conquerour, Had fallen upon him, what it had been then?

If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way!

He was thy Son in Law, there to be tainted, Had been most terrible: let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent.

_Caesar._ Oh _Sceva, Sceva_, see that head: see Captains, The head of G.o.dlike _Pompey_.

_Sceva._ He was basely ruin'd, But let the G.o.ds be griev'd that suffer'd it, And be you Caesar--

_Caesar._ Oh thou Conquerour, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity: Thou awe of Nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluckt thee on To trust thy sacred life to an _Egyptian_; The life and light of _Rome_, to a blind stranger, That honorable war ne'r taught a n.o.bleness, Nor worthy circ.u.mstance shew'd what a man was, That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets; And loose lascivious pleasures? to a Boy, That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness; And leave thy Nation, nay, thy n.o.ble friend, Leave him (distrusted) that in tears falls with thee?

(In soft relenting tears) hear me (great _Pompey_) (If thy great spirit can hear) I must task thee: Thou hast most unn.o.bly rob'd me of my victory, My love, and mercy.

_Ant._ O how brave these tears shew!

How excellent is sorrow in an Enemy!

_Dol._ Glory appears not greater than this goodness.

_Caesar._ _Egyptians_, dare you think your high _Pyramides_, Built to out-dare the Sun, as you suppose, Where your unworthy Kings lye rak'd in ashes, Are monuments fit for him? no, (brood of _Nilus_) Nothing can cover his high fame, but Heaven; No _Pyramides_ set off his memories, But the eternal substance of his greatness To which I leave him: take the head away, And (with the body) give it n.o.ble burial, Your Earth shall now be bless'd to hold a _Roman_, Whose braverys all the worlds-Earth cannot ballance.

_Sce._ If thou bee'st thus loving, I shall honour thee, But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible, And be right glad of what they seem to weep for, There are such kind of Philosophers; now do I wonder How he would look if _Pompey_ were alive again, But how he would set his face?

_Caesar._ You look now, King, And you that have been Agents in this glory, For our especial favour?

_Ptol._ We desire it.

_Caesar._ And doubtless you expect rewards.

_Sceva_. Let me give 'em: I'le give 'em such as nature never dreamt of, I'le beat him and his Agents (in a morter) Into one man, and that one man I'le bake then.

_Caesar_. Peace: I forgive you all, that's recompence: You are young, and ignorant, that pleads your pardon, And fear it may be more than hate provok'd ye, Your Ministers, I must think, wanted judgment, And so they err'd: I am bountiful to think this; Believe me most bountiful; be you most thankful, That bounty share amongst ye: if I knew What to send you for a present, King of _Egypt_, (I mean a head of equal reputation And that you lov'd) though it were your brightest Sisters, (But her you hate) I would not be behind ye.

_Ptol._ Hear me, (Great _Caesar_.)

_Caes._ I have heard too much, And study not with smooth shews to invade My n.o.ble Mind as you have done my Conquest.

Ye are poor and open: I must tell ye roundly, That Man that could not recompence the Benefits, The great and bounteous services of _Pompey_, Can never dote upon the Name of _Caesar_; Though I had hated _Pompey_, and allow'd his ruine, [I gave you no commission to performe it:]

Hasty to please in Blood are seldome trusty; And but I stand inviron'd with my Victories, My Fortune never failing to befriend me, My n.o.ble strengths, and friends about my Person, I durst not try ye, nor expect: a Courtesie, Above the pious love you shew'd to _Pompey_.

You have found me merciful in arguing with you; Swords, Hangmen, Fires, Destructions of all natures, Demolishments of Kingdoms, and whole Ruines Are wont to be my Orators; turn to tears, You wretched and poor seeds of Sun-burnt _Egypt_, And now you have found the nature of a Conquerour, That you cannot decline with all your flatteries, That where the day gives light will be himself still, Know how to meet his Worth with humane Courtesies, Go, and embalm those bones of that great Souldier; Howl round about his Pile, fling on your Spices, Make a _Sabaean_ Bed, and place this Phoenix Where the hot Sun may emulate his Vertues, And draw another _Pompey_ from his ashes Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the Worthies.

_Ptol._ We will do all.

_Caes._ You have rob'd him of those tears His Kindred and his Friends kept sacred for him; The Virgins of their Funeral Lamentations: And that kind Earth that thought to cover him, (His Countries Earth) will cry out 'gainst your Cruelty, And weep unto the Ocean for revenge, Till _Nilus_ raise his seven heads and devour ye; My grief has stopt the rest: when _Pompey_ liv'd He us'd you n.o.bly, now he is dead use him so. [_Exit._

_Ptol._ Now, where's your confidence? your aim (_Photinus_) The Oracles, and fair Favours from the Conquerour You rung into mine Ears? how stand I now?

You see the tempest of his stern displeasure, The death of him you urged a Sacrifice To stop his Rage, presaging a full ruine; Where are your Counsels now?

_Acho._ I told you, Sir, (And told the truth) what danger would flye after; And though an Enemy, I satisfied you He was a _Roman_, and the top of Honour; And howsoever this might please Great _Caesar_, I told ye that the foulness of his Death, The impious baseness--

_Pho._ Peace, you are a Fool, Men of deep ends must tread as deep ways to 'em; _Caesar_ I know is pleas'd, and for all his sorrows (Which are put on for forms and meer dissemblings) I am confident he's glad; to have told ye so, And thank ye outwardly, had been too open, And taken from the Wisedom of a Conquerour.

Be confident and proud ye have done this service; Ye have deserv'd, and ye will find it highly: Make bold use of this benefit, and be sure You keep your Sister, (the high-soul'd Cleopatra) Both close and short enough, she may not see him; The rest, if I may counsel, Sir--

_Ptol._ Do all; For in thy faithful service rests my safety. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ Septimius.

_Sept._ Here's a strange alteration in the Court; Mens Faces are of other setts and motions, Their minds of subtler stuff; I pa.s.s by now As though I were a Rascal, no man knows me, No Eye looks after; as I were a Plague Their doors shut close against me; and I wondred at Because I have done a meritorious Murther; Because I have pleas'd the Time, does the Time plague me?

I have known the day they would have hug'd me for it, For a less stroke than this have done me Reverence; Open'd their Hearts and secret Closets to me, Their Purses, and their Pleasures, and bid me wallow.

I now perceive the great Thieves eat the less, And the huge Leviathans of Villany Sup up the merits, nay the men and all That do them service, and spowt 'em out again Into the air, as thin and unregarded As drops of Water that are lost i'th' Ocean: I was lov'd once for swearing, and for drinking, And for other princ.i.p.al Qualities that became me, Now a foolish unthankful Murther has undone me, If my Lord _Photinus_ be not merciful

_Enter_ Photinus.

That set me on; And he comes, now Fortune.

_Pho._ Caesars unthankfulness a little stirs me, A little frets my bloud; take heed, proud _Roman_, Provoke me not, stir not mine anger farther; I may find out a way unto thy life too, (Though arm'd in all thy Victories) and seize it.

A Conquerour has a heart, and I may hit it.

_Sept_. May it please your Lords.h.i.+p?

_Pho._ O _Septimius_!

_Sept._ Your [Lords.h.i.+p] knows my wrongs.

_Pho._ Wrongs?

_Sept._ Yes, my Lord, How the Captain of the Guard, _Achillas_, slights me.

_Pho._ Think better of him, he has much befriended thee, Shew'd thee much love in taking the head from thee.

The times are alter'd (Souldier) _Caesar's_ angry, And our design to please him lost and perish'd; Be glad thou art unnam'd, 'tis not worth the owning; Yet, that thou maist be useful--

_Sept._ Yes, my Lord, I shall be ready.

_Pho._ For I may employ thee To take a rub or two out of my way, As time shall serve, say that it be a Brother?

Or a hard Father?

_Sept._ 'Tis most necessary, A Mother, or a Sister, or whom you please, Sir.