_Dolabella._ She sleeps fast— Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts For passion to persuade—nor art to breed Any more combats. I have seen her laid— As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms, That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord Now in the fullest possession of his prize, Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss The precious caskets of her eyes, that late Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil— Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek, Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale, As sudden gush of fancy in the heart Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last Her eager and luxurious form may know, Of that dread ravisher. _Augustus._ If it be true, She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure— My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else, The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil, In royal state to Rome. Give me to know The manner of her death. _Dolabella._ By her own hands, That conscious still, commended to her breast The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp; That subtle adder, that from slime and heat Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch Is a sure stoppage of the living tides. _Augustus._ Her death commends her more than all her life! ’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state, That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild, Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud For mortal subjugation! She had lusts Most profligate of harm—but with a will, That, under laws of more restraint, had raised Her passions into powers, which might have borne Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought Much evil to her nature; but her heart Cherished within a yearning sense of love That did not always fail; and where she set The eye of her affections, her fast faith Kept the close bond of obligation sure. This still should serve, when censure grows most free, To sanctify her fault. In common things Majestic, as in matters of more state, She had besides the feminine arts to make Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew To dress the profligate graces in her gift— Generous to very wantonness, and free Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim— That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape, So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all, Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence. The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned With her voluptuous weakness, did become Her well, and took from her the hideous hues That else had made men loathe! I would have seen