cradle,
And ravished thence the promise of a man.
Cast out from nature, disinherited
Of what her meanest children claim by kind,
Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that’s gone.
Had Cleopatra followed my advice,
Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes.
She dies for love; but she has known its joys:
Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys,
Must die, because she loves?

Enter Cleopatra, Charmion, Iras, and Train.
O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes!
Octavia’s here.

Cleo. Peace with that raven’s note.
I know it too; and now am in
The pangs of death.

Alex. You are no more a queen;
Egypt is lost.

Cleo. What tell’st thou me of Egypt?
My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!—
O fatal name to Cleopatra’s love!
My kisses, my embraces now are hers;
While I—But thou hast seen my rival; speak,
Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair?
Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection
Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made
Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished,
The gods threw by for rubbish.

Alex. She is indeed a very miracle.

Cleo. Death to my hopes, a miracle!

Alex. A miracle;

[Bowing.

Cleo. I was too rash:
Take this in part of recompense. But, oh!

[Giving a ring.
I fear thou flatterest me.

Char. She comes! she’s here!

Iras. Fly, madam, Cæsar’s sister!

Cleo. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove,
And bore her brother’s lightning in her eyes,
Thus would I face my rival.

[Meets Octavia with Ventidius. Octavia bears up to her Their Trains come up on either side.

Octav. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra;
Your haughty carriage—

Cleo. Shows I am a queen:
Nor need I ask you, who you are.

Octav. A Roman:
A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.

Cleo. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman.

Octav. He was a Roman, till he lost that name,
To be a slave in Egypt; but I come
To free him thence.

Cleo. Peace, peace, my lover’s Juno.
When he grew weary of that household clog,
He chose my easier bonds.

Octav. I wonder not
Your bonds are easy: you have long been practised
In that lascivious art: He’s not the first
For whom you spread your snares: Let Cæsar witness.

Cleo. I loved not Cæsar; ’twas but gratitude
I paid his love: The worst your malice can,
Is but to say the greatest of mankind
Has been my slave. The next, but far above him
In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours.
But whom his love made mine.