All For Love, John Dryden [best ereader for pc .TXT] 📗

not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy.

ALEXAS. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good Which once he feared to lose.

CLEOPATRA. I must attempt it; But oh, with what regret! [Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.]

VENTIDIUS. So, now the scene draws near; they’re in my reach.

CLEOPATRA. [to DOLABELLA.] Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment?

CHARMION. You have been The subject of it, madam.

CLEOPATRA. How! and how!

IRAS. Such praises of your beauty!

CLEOPATRA. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.

DOLABELLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen—had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name.

CLEOPATRA. You flatter me. But, ‘tis your nation’s vice: All of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend’s like you. I’m sure, he sent you not to speak these words.

DOLABELLA. No, madam; yet he sent me—

CLEOPATRA. Well, he sent you—

DOLABELLA. Of a less pleasing errand.

CLEOPATRA. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me?

DOLABELLA. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.

CLEOPATRA. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.— Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]—Well, now your mournful matter; For I’m prepared, perhaps can guess it too.

DOLABELLA. I wish you would; for ‘tis a thankless office, To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you.

CLEOPATRA. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should.

VENTIDIUS. Most delicate advances! Women! women! Dear, damned, inconstant sex!

CLEOPATRA. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is’t not so?

DOLABELLA. I wish I could not answer to that question.

CLEOPATRA. Then pass it o’er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next I’m to lose my kingdom—Farewell, Egypt! Yet, is there ary more?

DOLABELLA. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.

CLEOPATRA. No, no, I’m not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons.

DOLABELLA. You o’erjoy me, madam, To find your griefs so moderately borne. You’ve heard the worst; all are not false like him.

CLEOPATRA. No; Heaven forbid they should.

DOLABELLA. Some men are constant.

CLEOPATRA. And constancy deserves reward, that’s certain.

DOLABELLA. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope.

VENTIDIUS. I’ll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I’ll consider. [Exit.]

DOLABELLA. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another’s message was employed, Would gladly speak its own.

CLEOPATRA. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment?

DOLABELLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, He charged me with his words.

CLEOPATRA. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, DEPART.

DOLABELLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Aetna, In sounds scarce human—“Hence away for ever, Let her begone, the blot of my renown, And bane of all my hopes!” [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.] “Let her be driven, as far as men can think, >From man’s commerce! she’ll poison to the centre.”

CLEOPATRA. Oh, I can bear no more!

DOLABELLA. Help, help!—O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done!

CHARMION. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.

IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly.

CHARMION. Heaven be praised, She comes again.

CLEOPATRA. Oh, let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being; The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I’m sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence.—Unkind, unkind!

DOLABELLA. Believe me, ‘tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling.] That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne’er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear farewells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you (But what can you not do, who made me false?) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal.

CLEOPATRA. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But ‘twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.

DOLABELLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend, What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!

CLEOPATRA. Could you not beg An hour’s admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, Before his painful march; So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return.

VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind

VENTIDIUS. From hence you may discover—oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest?

DOLABELLA. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand.] Draw it not back. ‘Tis all I e’er will beg.

VENTIDIUS. They turn upon us.

OCTAVIA. What quick eyes has guilt!

VENTIDIUS. Seem not to have observed them, and go on. [They enter.]

DOLABELLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius?

VENTIDIUS. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.

DOLABELLA. Know you his business?

VENTIDIUS. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar.

DOLABELLA. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.]

OCTAVIA. Most glorious impudence!

VENTIDIUS. She looked, methought, As she would say—Take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I’m better here.— Well, but what use Make we of this discovery?

OCTAVIA. Let it die.

VENTIDIUS. I pity Dolabella; but she’s dangerous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear. Then she’s so charming, Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he’s endeavouring her peace.

OCTAVIA. You have prevailed:—But for a further purpose [Walks off.] I’ll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet’s peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be.

VENTIDIUS. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me.

Enter ANTONY

ANTONY. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions.

OCTAVIA. Mine, my lord, are written.

ANTONY. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside.]

VENTIDIUS. My lord?

ANTONY. A word in private.— When saw you Dolabella?

VENTIDIUS. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him.

ANTONY. Speak softly.—‘Twas by my command he went, To bear my last farewell.

VENTIDIUS. It looked indeed [Aloud.] Like your farewell.

ANTONY. More softly.—My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of—My farewell? He did it by my order.

VENTIDIUS. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose [Aloud.] You bid him do it with all gentleness, All kindness, and all—love.

ANTONY. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature!

VENTIDIUS. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar’s, as she would another’s, Were a new love to come.

ANTONY. Thou dost belie her; [Aloud.] Most basely, and maliciously belie her.

VENTIDIUS. I thought not to displease you; I have done.

OCTAVIA. You seemed disturbed, my Lord. [Coming up.]

ANTONY. A very trifle. Retire, my love.

VENTIDIUS. It was indeed a trifle. He sent—

ANTONY. No more. Look how thou disobey’st me; [Angrily.] Thy life shall answer it.

OCTAVIA. Then ‘tis no trifle.

VENTIDIUS. [to OCTAVIA.] ‘Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it, As well as I, and therefore ‘tis no secret.

ANTONY. She saw it!

VENTIDIUS. Yes: She saw young Dolabella—

ANTONY. Young Dolabella!

VENTIDIUS. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your command, Indeed ‘tis probable, with some kind message; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud—That constancy Should be rewarded.

OCTAVIA. This I saw and heard.

ANTONY. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend? Not Cleopatra?

VENTIDIUS. Even she, my lord.

ANTONY. My Cleopatra?

VENTIDIUS. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella’s Cleopatra; every man’s Cleopatra.

ANTONY. Thou liest.

VENTIDIUS. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she’s not much used to lonely nights.

ANTONY. I’ll think no more on’t. I know ‘tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.— You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra’s just? She’s mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no further, love.

OCTAVIA. Are you concerned, That she’s found false?

ANTONY. I should be, were it so; For, though ‘tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both.

VENTIDIUS. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If Heaven be true, she’s false.

ANTONY. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I’ll not believe her tainted.

VENTIDIUS. I’ll bring you, then, a witness >From hell, to prove her so.—Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.] For stay you must and shall.

ALEXAS. What means my lord?

VENTIDIUS. To make you do what most you hate,—speak truth. You are of Cleopatra’s private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day.

ALEXAS.