The False One Part 9

_MUSTEK, SONG._

_Enter_ Isis, _and three Labourers._

_Isis, the G.o.ddess of this Land,_ _Bids thee (great Caesar) understand_ _And mark our Customes, and first know,_ _With greedy eyes these watch the flow_ _Of plenteous Nilus: when he comes,_ _With Songs, with Daunces, Timbrels, Drums_ _They entertain him, cut his way,_ _And give his proud Heads leave to play:_ _Nilus himself shall rise, and show_ _His matchless wealth in Over-flow._

_LABOURERS SONG._

_Come let us help the reverend Nile,_ _He's very old (alas the while)_ _Let us dig him easie wayes,_ _And prepare a thousand Playes:_ _To delight his streams let's sing_ _A loud welcom to our Spring._ _This way let his curling Heads_ _Fall into our new made Beds._ _This way let his wanton sp.a.w.ns,_ _Frisky and glide it o're the Lawns._ _This way profit comes, and gain:_ _How he tumbles here amain!_ _How his waters haste to fall_ _Into our Channels! Labour all_ _And let him in: Let Nilus flow,_ _And perpetuall plenty show._ _With Incense let us bless the brim,_ _And as the wanton fishes swim,_ _Let us Gums, and Garlands fling,_ _And loud our Timbrels ring._ _Come (old Father) come away,_ _Our labour is our holy day._

Isis. _Here comes the aged River now_ _With Garlands of great Pearl, his Brow_ _Begirt and rounded: In his Flow_ _All things take life; and all things grow._ _A thousand wealthy Treasures still,_ _To do him service at his will_ _Follow his rising Flood, and pour_ _Perpetuall blessings in our store._ _Hear him: and next there will advance,_ _His sacred Heads to tread a Dance,_ _In honour of my Royal Guest,_ _Mark them too: and you have a Feast._

_Cleo._ A little dross betray me?

_Caesar_. I am asham'd I warr'd at home, (my friends) When such wealth may be got abroad: what honour?

Nay everlasting glory had _Rome_ purchas'd, Had she a just cause but to visit _aegypt_?

_NILUS_ SONG, _AND DANCE._

_Make room for my rich waters fall, and bless my Flood,_ _Nilus comes flowing, to you all encrease and good._ _Now the Plants and Flowers shall spring,_ _And the merry Plough-man sing_ _In my bidden waves I bring_ _Bread, and wine, and every thing._ _Let the Damsells sing me in:_ _Sing aloud that I may rise:_ _Your holy Feasts and hours begin,_ _And each hand bring a Sacrifice._ _Now my wanton Pearls I show_ _That to Ladies fair necks grow._ _Now my gold_ _And treasures that can ne're be told,_ _Shall bless this Land, by my rich Flow,_ _And after this, to crown your Eyes,_ _My hidden holy head arise._

_Caesar_. The wonder of this wealth so troubles me, I am not well: good-night.

_Sce._ I am glad ye have it: Now we shall stir again.

_Ptol._ Thou wealth, still haunt him.

_Sce._ A greedy spirit set thee on: we are happy.

_Ptol._ Lights: lights for _Caesar_, and attendance.

_Cleo._ Well, I shall yet find a time to tell thee _Caesar_, Thou hast wrong'd her Love: the rest here.

_Ptol._ Lights along still: Musick, and Sacrifice to sleep for _Caesar_. [_Exeunt._

_ACTUS QUARTUS. SCENA PRIMA._

_Enter_ Ptolomy, Photinus, Achillas, Ach.o.r.eus.

_Ach._ I told ye carefully, what this would prove to, What this inestimable wealth and glory Would draw upon ye: I advis'd your Majesty Never to tempt a Conquering Guest: nor add A bait, to catch a mind, bent by his Trade To make the whole world his.

_Pho._ I was not heard Sir: Or what I said, lost, and contemn'd: I dare say, (And freshly now) 'twas a poor weakness in ye, A glorious Childishness: I watch'd his eye, And saw how Faulcon-like it towr'd, and flew Upon the wealthy Quarry: how round it mark'd it: I observ'd his words, and to what it tended; How greedily he ask'd from whence it came, And what Commerce we held for such abundance: The shew of _Nilus_, how he laboured at To find the secret wayes the Song delivered.

_Ach._ He never smil'd, I noted, at the pleasures, But fixt his constant eyes upon the treasure; I do not think his ears had so much leisure After the wealth appear'd, to hear the Musique?

Most sure he has not slept since, his mind's troubled With objects that would make their own still labour.

_Pho._ Your Sister he ne're gaz'd on: that's a main note, The prime beauty of the world had no power over him.

_Ach._ Where was his mind the whilst?

_Pho._ Where was your carefulness To shew an armed thief the way to rob ye?

Nay, would you give him this, 'twill excite him To seek the rest. Ambition feels no gift, Nor knows no bounds, indeed ye have done most weakly.

_Ptol._ Can I be too kind to my n.o.ble friend?

_Pho._ To be unkind unto your n.o.ble self, but savours Of indiscretion, and your friend has found it.

Had ye been train'd up in the wants and miseries A souldier marches through, and known his temperance In offer'd courtesies, you would have made A wiser Master of your own, and stronger.

_Ptol._ Why, should I give him all, he would return it: 'Tis more to him, to make Kings.

_Pho._ Pray be wiser, And trust not with your lost wealth, your lov'd liberty.

To be a King still at your own discretion Is like a King; to be at his, a va.s.sail.

Now take good counsel, or no more take to ye The freedom of a Prince.

_Achil._ 'Twill be too late else: For, since the Masque, he sent three of his Captains (Ambitious as himself) to view again The glory of your wealth.

_Pho._ The next himself comes, Not staying for your courtesie, and takes it.

_Ptol._ What counsel, my _Ach.o.r.eus_?

_Ach._ I'le goe pray Sir, (For that is best counsel now) the G.o.ds may help ye. [_Ex._

_Pho._ I found ye out a way but 'twas not credited, A most secure way: whither will ye flye now?

_Achil._ For when your wealth is gone, your power must follow.

_Pho._ And that diminisht also, what's your life worth?

Who would regard it?

_Ptol._ You say true.

_Achil._ What eye Will look upon King _Ptolomy_? if they do look, It must be in scorn: For a poor King is a monster; What ear remember ye? 'twill be then a courtesie (A n.o.ble one) to take your life too from ye: But if reserv'd, you stand to fill a victory, As who knows Conquerours minds? though outwardly They bear fair streams.

O Sir, does this not shake ye?

If to be honyed on to these afflictions--

_Ptol._ I never will: I was a Fool.

_Pho._ For then Sir Your Countreys cause falls with ye too, and fetter'd: All _aegypt_ shall be plough'd up with dishonour.

_Ptol._ No more: I am sensible: and now my spirit Burns hot within me.

_Achil._ Keep it warm and fiery.

_Pho._ And last be counsel'd.

_Ptol._ I will, though I perish.