A Discourse of Life and Death, by Mornay; and Antonius by Garnier Part 7

_Ag._ A feared Prince hath oft his death desir'd.

_Cae._ A Prince not fear'd hath oft his wrong conspir'de.

_Ag._ No guard so sure, no forte so strong doth proue, No such defence, as is the peoples loue.

_Caes._ Nought more vnsure more weak, more like the winde, Then _Peoples_ fauor still to chaunge enclinde.

_Ag._ Good G.o.ds! what loue to gracious Prince men beare!

_Caes._ What honor to the Prince that is seuere!

_Ag._ Nought more diuine then is _Benignitie_.

_Cae._ Nought likes the _G.o.ds_ as doth _Seueritie_.

_Ag._ _G.o.ds_ all forgiue.

_Cae._ On faults they paines do laie.

_Ag._ And giue their goods.

_Cae._ Oft times they take away.

_Ag._ They wreake them not, o _Caesar_, at each time That by our sinnes they are to wrathe prouok'd.

Neither must you (beleue, I humblie praie) Your victorie with crueltie defile.

The G.o.ds it gaue, it must not be abus'd, But to the good of all men mildlie vs'd, And they be thank'd: that hauing giu'n you grace To raigne alone, and rule this earthlie ma.s.se, They may hence-forward hold it still in rest, All scattred power vnited in one brest.

_Cae._ But what is he, that breathles comes so fast, Approaching vs, and going in such hast?

_Ag._ He semes affraid: and vnder his arme I (But much I erre) a bloudie sworde espie.

_Caes._ I long to vnderstand what it may be.

_Ag._ He hither comes: it's best we stay and see.

_Dirce._ What good G.o.d now my voice will reenforce, That tell I may to rocks, and hilles, and woods, To waues of sea, which dash vpon the sh.o.r.e, To earth, to heau'n, the woefull newes I bring?

_Ag._ What sodaine chaunce thee towards vs hath brought?

_Dir._ A lamentable chance. O wrath of heau'ns!

O G.o.ds too pittiles!

_Caes._ What monstrous happ Wilt thou recount?

_Dir._ Alas too hard mishapp!

When I but dreame of what mine eies beheld, My hart doth freeze, my limmes do quiuering quake, I senceles stand, my brest with tempest tost Killes in my throte my wordes, ere fully borne.

Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say, This murthering sword hath made the man away.

_Caes._ Alas my heart doth cleaue, pittie me rackes, My breast doth pant to heare this dolefull tale.

Is _Antonie_ then dead? To death, alas!

I am the cause despaire him so compelld.

But souldiour of his death the maner showe, And how he did this liuing light forgoe.

_Dir._ When _Antonie_ no hope remaining saw How warre he might, or how agreement make, Saw him betraid by all his men of warre In euery fight as well by sea, as lande; That not content to yeld them to their foes They also came against himselfe to fight: Alone in Court he gan himself torment, Accuse the Queene, himselfe of hir lament, Call'd hir vntrue and traytresse, as who fought To yeld him vp she could no more defend: That in the harmes which for hir sake he bare, As in his blisfull state, she might not share.

But she againe, who much his furie fear'd, Gatt to the Tombes, darke horrors dwelling place: Made lock the doores, and pull the hea.r.s.es downe.

Then fell shee wretched, with hir selfe to fight.

A thousand plaints, a thousand sobbes she cast From hir weake brest which to the bones was torne, Of women hir the most vnhappie call'd, Who by hir loue, hir woefull loue, had lost Hir realme, hir life, and more, the loue of him, Who while he was, was all hir woes support.

But that she faultles was she did inuoke For witnes heau'n, and aire, and earth, and sea.

Then sent him worde, she was no more aliue, But lay inclosed dead within hir Tombe.

This he beleeu'd; and fell to sigh and grone, And crost his armes, then thus began to mone.

_Caes._ Poore hopeles man!

_Dir._ What dost thou more attend?

Ah _Antonie_! why dost thou death deferre?

Since _Fortune_ thy professed enimie, Hath made to die, who only made thee liue?

Sone as with sighes he had these words vp clos'd, His armor he vnlaste, and cast it of, Then all disarm'd he thus againe did say: My Queene, my heart, the grief that now I feele, Is not that I your eies, my Sunne, do loose, For soone againe one Tombe shal vs conioyne: I grieue, whom men so valorouse did deeme, Should now, then you, of lesser valor seeme.

So said, forthwith he _Eros_ to him call'd, _Eros_ his man; summond him on his faith To kill him at his nede. He tooke the sworde, And at that instant stab'd therwith his breast, And ending life fell dead before his fete.

O _Eros_ thankes (quoth _Antonie_) for this Most n.o.ble acte, who pow'rles me to kill, On thee hast done, what I on mee should doe.

Of speaking thus he scarce had made an ende, And taken vp the bloudie sword from ground, But he his bodie piers'd; and of redd bloud A gushing fountaine all the chamber fill'd.

He staggred at the blowe, his face grew pale, And on a couche all feeble downe he fell, Swounding with anguish: deadly cold him tooke, As if his soule had then his lodging left.

But he reuiu'd, and marking all our eies Bathed in teares, and how our b.r.e.a.s.t.s we beatt For pittie, anguish, and for bitter griefe, To see him plong'd in extreame wretchednes: He prai'd vs all to haste his lingr'ing death: But no man willing, each himselfe withdrew.

Then fell he new to crie and vexe himselfe, Vntill a man from _Cleopatra_ came, Who said from hir he had commaundement To bring him to hir to the monument.

The poore soule at these words euen rapt with Ioy Knowing she liu'd, prai'd vs him to conuey Vnto his Ladie. Then vpon our armes We bare him to the Tombe, but entred not.

For she, who feared captiue to be made, And that she should to _Rome_ in triumph goe, Kept close the gate: but from a window high Cast downe a corde, wherin he was impackt.

Then by hir womens helpt the corps she rais'd, And by strong armes into hir windowe drew.

So pittifull a sight was neuer sene.

Little and little _Antonie_ was pull'd, Now breathing death: his beard was all vnkempt, His face and brest all bathed in his bloud.

So hideous yet, and dieng as he was, His eies half-clos'd vppon the Queene he cast: Held vp his hands, and holpe himself to raise, But still with weakenes back his bodie fell.

The miserable ladie with moist eies, With haire which careles on hir forhead hong, With brest which blowes had bloudilie benumb'd, With stooping head, and bodie down-ward bent, Enlast hir in the corde, and with all force This life-dead man couragiously vprais'de.

The bloud with paine into hir face did flowe, Hir sinewes stiff, her selfe did breathles growe.

The people which beneath in flocks beheld, a.s.sisted her with gesture, speech, desire: Cri'de and incourag'd her, and in their soules Did sweate, and labor, no white lesse then shee.

Who neuer tir'd in labor, held so long Helpt by hir women, and hir constant heart, That _Antonie_ was drawne into the tombe, And ther (I thinke) of dead augments the summe.

The Cittie all to teares and sighes is turn'd, To plaints and outcries horrible to heare: Men, women, children, h.o.a.ry-headed age Do all pell mell in house and strete lament, Scratching their faces, tearing of their haire, Wringing their hands, and martyring their brests.

Extreame their dole: and greater misery In sacked townes can hardlie euer be.

Not if the fire had scal'de the highest towers: That all things were of force and murther full; That in the streets the bloud in riuers stream'd; That sonne his sire saw in his bosome slaine, The sire his sonne: the husband reft of breath In his wiues armes, who furious runnes to death.

Now my brest wounded with their piteouse plaints I left their towne, and tooke with me this sworde, Which I tooke vp at what time _Antonie_ Was from his chamber caried to the tombe: And brought it you, to make his death more plaine, And that therby my words may credite gaine.

_Caes._ Ah G.o.ds what cruell happ! poore _Antonie_, Alas hast thou this sword so long time borne Against thy foe, that in the ende it should Of thee his Lord the cursed murthr'er be?

_O Death_ how I bewaile thee! we (alas!) So many warres haue ended, brothers, frends, Companions, coozens, equalls in estate: And must it now to kill thee be my fate?

_Ag._ Why trouble you your selfe with bootles griefe?

For _Antonie_ why spend you teares in vaine?

Why darken you with dole your victorie?

Me seemes your self your glorie do enuie.

Enter the towne, giue thankes vnto the G.o.ds.

_Caes._ I cannot but his tearefull chaunce lament, Although not I, but his owne pride the cause, And vnchaste loue of this _aegyptian_.