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, Assisted 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, hoary-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. _Cæs._ Ah Gods 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?