_Sceva._ He was basely ruin'd, But let the Gods be griev'd that suffer'd it, And be you Cæsar-- _Cæsar._ Oh thou Conquerour, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity: Thou awe of Nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluckt thee on To trust thy sacred life to an _Egyptian_; The life and light of _Rome_, to a blind stranger, That honorable war ne'r taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance shew'd what a man was, That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets; And loose lascivious pleasures? to a Boy, That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness; And leave thy Nation, nay, thy noble friend, Leave him (distrusted) that in tears falls with thee? (In soft relenting tears) hear me (great _Pompey_) (If thy great spirit can hear) I must task thee: Thou hast most unnobly rob'd me of my victory, My love, and mercy. _Ant._ O how brave these tears shew! How excellent is sorrow in an Enemy! _Dol._ Glory appears not greater than this goodness. _Cæsar._ _Egyptians_, dare you think your high _Pyramides_, Built to out-dare the Sun, as you suppose, Where your unworthy Kings lye rak'd in ashes, Are monuments fit for him? no, (brood of _Nilus_) Nothing can cover his high fame, but Heaven; No _Pyramides_ set off his memories, But the eternal substance of his greatness To which I leave him: take the head away, And (with the body) give it noble burial, Your Earth shall now be bless'd to hold a _Roman_, Whose braverys all the worlds-Earth cannot ballance. _Sce._ If thou bee'st thus loving, I shall honour thee, But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible, And be right glad of what they seem to weep for, There are such kind of Philosophers; now do I wonder How he would look if _Pompey_ were alive again, But how he would set his face? _Cæsar._ You look now, King, And you that have been Agents in this glory, For our especial favour? _Ptol._ We desire it. _Cæsar._ And doubtless you expect rewards. _Sceva_. Let me give 'em: I'le give 'em such as nature never dreamt of, I'le beat him and his Agents (in a morter) Into one man, and that one man I'le bake then. _Cæsar_. Peace: I forgive you all, that's recompence: You are young, and ignorant, that pleads your pardon, And fear it may be more than hate provok'd ye, Your Ministers, I must think, wanted judgment, And so they err'd: I am bountiful to think this; Believe me most bountiful; be you most thankful, That bounty share amongst ye: if I knew What to send you for a present, King of _Egypt_, (I mean a head of equal reputation And that you lov'd) though it were your brightest Sisters, (But her you hate) I would not be behind ye. _Ptol._ Hear me, (Great _Cæsar_.)