It shall not here soiourne, To kill vs with those armes Were forg’d for others harmes: But haue their pointes addrest, Against the _Germaines_ brest, The _Parthians_ fayned flight, The _Biscaines_ martiall might. Olde Memorie doth there Painted on forhead weare Our Fathers praise: thence torne Our triumphes baies haue worne: Therby our matchles _Rome_ Whilome of Shepeheards come Rais’d to this greatnes stands, The Queene of forraine lands. Which now euen seemes to face The heau’ns, her glories place: Nought resting vnder Skies That dares affront her eies. So that she needes but feare The weapons _Ioue_ doth beare, Who angrie at one blowe May her quite ouerthrowe. Act. 5. _Cleopatra._ _Euphron._ _Children of Cleopatra._ _Charmion._ _Eras._ _Cleop._ O cruell Fortune! ô accursed lott! O plaguy loue! ô most detested brand! O wretched ioyes! ô beauties miserable! O deadlie state! ô deadly roialtie! O hatefull life! ô Queene most lamentable! O _Antonie_ by my fault buriable! O hellish worke of heau’n! alas! the wrath Of all the Gods at once on vs is falne. Vnhappie Queene! ô would I in this world The wandring light of day had neuer sene? Alas! of mine the plague and poison I The crowne haue lost my ancestors me left, This Realme I haue to straungers subiect made, And robd my children of their heritage. Yet this is nought (alas!) vnto the price Of you deare husband, whome my snares entrap’d: Of you, whom I haue plagu’d, whom I haue made With bloudie hand a guest of mouldie Tombe: Of you, whome I destroid, of you, deare Lord, Whome I of Empire, honor, life haue spoil’d. O hurtfull woman! and can I yet liue, Yet longer liue in this Ghost-haunted tombe? Can I yet breathe! can yet in such annoy, Yet can my Soule within this bodie dwell? O Sisters you that spinne the thredes of death! O _Styx_! ô _Phlegethon_! you brookes of hell! O Impes of _Night_! _Euph._ Liue for your childrens sake: Let not your death of kingdome them depriue. Alas what shall they do? who will haue care? Who will preserue this royall race of yours? Who pittie take? euen now me seemes I see These little soules to seruile bondage falne, And borne in triumph. _Cl._ Ah most miserable! _Euph._ Their tender armes with cursed corde fast bound At their weake backs. _Cl._ Ah Gods what pittie more! _Eph._ Their seelie necks to ground with weaknesse bend. _Cl._ Neuer on vs, good Gods, such mischiefe sende. _Euph._ And pointed at with fingers as they go. _Cl._ Rather a thousand deaths. _Euph._ Lastly his knife Some cruell caytiue in their bloud embrue.