XVII. FROM ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.-Shakspeare.

ANTONY-VENTIDIUS.

Antony. They tell me 'tis my birth day; and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I traveled,

Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downwards
To be trod out by Cæsar?

Ventidius. I must disturb him. I can hold no longer.
(Stands before him.)

Ant. (Starting up.) Art thou Ventidius?

Vent. Are you Antony?

I'm liker what I was, than you to him

I left

you last.

Ant. I'm angry.

Vent. So am I.

Ant. I would be private. Leave me.
Vent. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.
Ant. Will not leave me!

Where have you learnt this answer? Who am I?
Vent. My emperor; the man I love next heaven.
Ant. Emperor? Why that's the style of victory.
The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so: but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent. I warrant you.

Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh--

Vent. It sits too near you.

Ant. Here, here it lies! a lump of lead by day; And, in my short distracted nightly slumbers,

The hag that rides my dreams-

Vent. Out with it; give it vent.

Ant. Urge not my shame

I lost a battle.

Vent. So has Julius done.

Ant. Thou favorest me, and speakest not half thou thinkest; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly:

But Antony-

Vent. Nay, stop not.

Ant. Antony

(Well, thou wilt have it) like a coward fled,
Fled while his soldiers fought! fled first, Ventidius.
Thou longest to curse me; I give thee leave.

I know thou camest prepared to rail.

Vent. No.
Ant. - Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done; too conscious of your failings;
And like a scorpion, whipped by others first
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distempered mind, and heal

Ant.

I know thou wouldst.

Vent. I will.

Ant.

Vent.

your

Sure thou dreamest, Ventidius !

fortunes.

No, 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honor's sake; twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief. By painful journeys
I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marches, to the Nile.
"Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopped hands; there's virtue in

them;

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates

Than trim bands can buy.
yon

Ant. Where left you them?
Vent. I said, in Lower Syria.

Ant. Bring them hither;

There may be life in these.

Vent.

They will not come.

Ant. Why did they refuse to march?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Ant. What was't they said?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave ?

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life,

No word of Cleopatra ;--she deserves

More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you powers,

To whom you have entrusted human kind!
See Europe, Asia, Africa, put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light worthless woman!
Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.
Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance! plain insolence!
Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor,
Who, under seeming honesty, has vented
The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall.
Oh, that thou wert my equal, great in arms
As the first Cæsar was, that I might kill thee
Without a stain to honor!

Vent. You may kill me ;

You have done more already; called me a traitor.
Ant. Art thou not one?

Vent. For showing you yourself,

Which no one else durst have done. But had I been
That name, which I disdain to speak again,

I need not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you.

What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles
To fill Octavius's bands? I could have been

A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,

And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier;

I've been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir,
Pray kill me; yet you need not; your unkindness
Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage: prithee forgive me.

Thou only lovest, the rest have flattered me.

Vent. Heaven's blessing on your heart, for that kind word.

May I believe you love me? Speak again.

Ant. Indeed I do. Do with me what thou wilt:

Lead me to victory, thou knowest the way.

Vent. And will you leave this-

Ant. Prithee do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though heaven knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honor;

But I will leave her.

Vent. That's my royal master:

And shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier:
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron,
And at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud, come, follow me!
Vent. Methinks you breathe

Another soul; your looks are more sublime;
You speak a hero, and you move like Mars.
Ant. O, thou hast fired me! My soul is up in arms!
And man's each part about me.
Once again
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;
That eagerness with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way! In vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield!
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods!

For such another hour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier;

I long

Our hearts and arms are still the same.
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,
May take fate to them; mow them out a passage,
And, entering where the utmost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field.

XVIII. FROM THE PEASANT BOY.-Dimond.

ALBERTI-JULIAN-MONTALDI-STEFANO-LUDOVICO-AM

BROSE-VINCENT GUARDS, &c.

(Enter Guards, conducting Julian-all the characters follow, and a crowd of vassals-Alberti advances to the judgment seat.)

Alberti. My people!-the cause of your present assemblage too well is known to you. You come to witness the dispensations of an awful but impartial justice; either to rejoice in the acquittal of innocence wrongfully accused, or to approve the conviction of guilt, arrested in its foul career. Personal feelings forbid me to assume this seat myself; yet fear not but that it will be filled by nobleness and honor;to Montaldi only, I resign it.

Julian. He my judge! then I am lost indeed.

(Aside.)

Alb. Ascend the seat, my friend, and decide from it as your own virtuous conscience shall direct: this only will I say should the scales of accusation and defense poise doubtfully, let mercy touch them with her downy hand, and turn the balance on the gentler side.

Montaldi. (Ascending the seat.) Your will and honor are my only governors! (Bows.) Julian! stand forth! you are charged with a most foul and horrible attempt upon the life of my noble kinsman—the implements of murder have been found in your possession, and many powerful circumstances combine to fix the guilt upon you. What have you to urge

in vindication?

Jul. First, I swear by that Power, whom vice dreads and virtue reverences, that no syllable but strictest truth shall pass my lips ;—on the evening of yesterday, I crossed the mountain to the monastery of St. Bertrand; my errand thither finished, I returned directly to the valley. Rosalie saw me enter the cottage-soon afterwards, a strange outcry recalled me to the door; a mantle spread before the threshold caught my eye; I raised it, and discovered a mask within it. The mantle was newly stained with blood! consternation seized upon my soul-the next minute I was surrounded by guards, and accused of murder. They produced a weapon I had lost in defending myself against a ferocious animal'; confounded by terror and surprise, I had not power to explain the truth, and loaded with chains and reproaches, I was dragged to the dungeons of the castle. Here my knowledge of the dark transaction ends, and I have only this to add-I may become the victim of circumstance, but I never have been the slave of crime!

Mon. (Smiling ironically.) Plausibly urged; have you no more to offer?

Jul. Truth needs but few words-I have spoken!

Mon. Yet bethink yourself-dare you abide by this wild tale, and brave a sentence on no stronger plea?

Jul. Alas! I have none else to offer.

Mon. You say, on the evening of yesterday, you visited the monastery of St. Bertrand. What was your business there?

Jul. With father Nicolo-to engage him to marry Rosalie and myself on the following morning.

Mon. A marriage too! Well! at what time did you quit the monastery?