_Cl._ O Goddesse thou whom _Cyprus_ doth adore, _Venus_ of _Paphos_, bent to worke vs harme For olde _Iulus_ broode, if thou take care Of _Cæsar_, why of vs tak’st thou no care? _Antonie_ did descend, as well as he, From thine own Sonne by long enchained line: And might haue rul’d by one and self same fate, True _Troian_ bloud, the statelie _Romain_ state. _Antonie_, poore _Antonie_, my deare soule, Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe, Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone, And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz’d. Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place of loue, Which yet for tents to warlike _Mars_ did serue, Lock’d vp in lidds (as faire daies cherefull light Which darknesse flies) do winking hide in night. _Antonie_ by our true loues I thee beseche, And by our hearts swete sparks haue sett on fire, Our holy mariage, and the tender ruthe Of our deare babes, knot of our amitie: My dolefull voice thy eare let entertaine, And take me with thee to the hellish plaine, Thy wife, thy frend: heare _Antonie_, ô heare My sobbing sighes, if here thou be, or there. Liued thus long, the winged race of yeares Ended I haue as _Destinie_ decreed, Flourish’d and raign’d, and taken iust reuenge Of him who me both hated and despisde. Happie, alas too happie! if of _Rome_ Only the fleete had hither neuer come. And now of me an Image great shall goe Vnder the earth to bury there my woe. What say I? where am I? ô _Cleopatra_, Poore _Cleopatra_, griefe thy reason reaues. No, no, most happie in this happles case, To die with thee, and dieng thee embrace: My bodie ioynde with thine, my mouth with thine, My mouth, whose moisture burning sighes haue dried: To be in one selfe tombe, and one selfe chest, And wrapt with thee in one selfe sheete to rest. The sharpest torment in my heart I feele Is that I staie from thee, my heart, this while. Die will I straight now, now streight will I die, And streight with thee a wandring shade will be, Vnder the _Cypres_ trees thou haunt’st alone, Where brookes of hell do falling seeme to mone. But yet I stay, and yet thee ouerliue, That ere I die due rites I may thee giue. A thousand sobbes I from my brest will teare, With thousand plaints thy funeralles adorne: My haire shall serue for thy oblations, My boiling teares for thy effusions, Mine eies thy fire: for out of them the flame (Which burnt thy heart on me enamour’d) came. Wepe my companions, wepe, and from your eies Raine downe on him of teares a brinish streame. Mine can no more, consumed by the coales Which from my breast, as from a furnace, rise. Martir your breasts with multiplied blowes, With violent hands teare of your hanging haire, Outrage your face: alas! why should we seeke (Since now we die) our beawties more to kepe? I spent in teares, not able more to spende, But kisse him now, what rests me more to doe?