Alexandria: A History and a GuideForster, E. M. (Edward Morgan)
History
Alexandria: A History and a Guide
Forster, E. M. (Edward Morgan)
Alexandria (Egypt) -- Guidebooks; Alexandria (Egypt) -- History
_Cleopatra._ As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle—
O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.
(applying another asp to her arm)
What should I stay— (dies).
_Charmian._ In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close;
And golden Phœbus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry;
I’ll mend it, and then play.
(enter the Guard, rushing in)
_First Guard._ Where is the queen?
_Charmian._ Speak softly, wake her not.
_First Guard._ Caesar hath sent—
_Charmian._ Too slow a messenger.
(applies an asp)
O! come apace, dispatch; I partly feel thee.
_First Guard._ Approach, ho! All’s not well; Caesar’s
beguil’d.
_Second Guard._ There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him.
_First Guard._ What work is this? Charmian, is this well
done?
_Charmian._ It is well done and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings.
Ah! Soldier.
(dies)
(iii). DRYDEN. (All for Love, Act. V Scene I).
_Charmian._ To what end
These ensigns of your Pomp and Royalty?
_Cleopatra._ Dull that thou art! why, ’tis to meet my Love;
As when I saw him first, on Cydno’s bank,
All sparkling, like a goddess; so adorned,
I’ll find him, once again: my second spousals
Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,
And dress the bride of Antony.
_Charmian._ ’Tis done.
_Cleopatra._ Now set me by my lord. I claim this place:
For I must conquer Caesar too, like him,
And win my share o’ th’ world. Hail, you dear relics
Of my immortal love!
O let no impious hand remove you hence;
But rest for ever here. Let Egypt give
His death that peace, which it denied his life.
Reach me the casket.
_Iras._ Underneath the fruit
The aspic lies.
Welcome, thou kind deceiver!
_Cleopatra._
(putting aside the leaves)
Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key,
Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,
Ev’n steal us from ourselves; discharging so
Death’s dreadful office, better than himself,
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,
That Death stands by, deceived by his own image,
And thinks himself but sleep.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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