_Ser._ Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae; panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, Sea-horses floundring in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them. _Enter_ ALEXAS _behind them._ _Myr._ Avert these omens, Heaven! _Ser._ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more. My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene. _Alex._ And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [_Shewing himself._ To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? _Serap._ My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what I uttered was most true. _Alex._ A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. _Serap._ I know my duty: This goes no farther. _Alex._ 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatning, like a storm Just breaking on our heads. _Serap._ Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; But in their servile hearts they own Octavius. _Myr._ Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a noble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost? _Alex._ He thinks 'tis past recovery. _Serap._ Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege. _Alex._ O, there's the wonder. Mecaenas and Agrippa, who can most With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep. _Serap._ 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black despair. _Alex._ 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love.