The False One | Page 7

great enemy? This Godlike vertuous man, as people held him, But what fool dare be friend to flying vertue?
Enter C?sar, Anthony, Dolabella, Sceva.
I hear their Trumpets, 'tis too late to stagger, Give me the head, and be you confident: Hail Conquerour, and head of all the world, Now this head's off.
C?sar. Ha?
Pho. Do not shun me, C?sar, From kingly Ptolomy I bring this present, The Crown, and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour: The goal and mark of high ambitious honour. Before thy victory had no name, C?sar, Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompence, Thou dreamst of being worthy, and of war; And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers, Here they take life: here they inherit honour, Grow fixt, and shoot up everlasting triumphs: Take it, and look upon thy humble servant, With noble eyes look on the Princely Ptolomy, That offers with this head (most mighty C?sar) What thou would'st once have given for it, all Egypt.
Ach. Nor do not question it (most royal Conquerour) Nor dis-esteem the benefit that meets thee, Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer: Yet let me tell thee (most imperious C?sar) Though he oppos'd no strength of Swords to win this, Nor labour'd through no showres of darts, and lances: Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly, An inward war: he was his Grand-sires Guest; Friend to his Father, and when he was expell'd And beaten from this Kingdom by strong hand, And had none left him, to restore his honour, No hope to find a friend, in such a misery; Then in stept Pompey; took his feeble fortune: Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again, This was a love to C?sar.
Sceva. Give me, hate, Gods.
Pho. This C?sar may account a little wicked, But yet remember, if thine own hands, Conquerour, Had fallen upon him, what it had been then? If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way! He was thy Son in Law, there to be tainted, Had been most terrible: let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent.
C?sar. Oh Sceva, Sceva, see that head: see Captains, The head of godlike Pompey.
Sceva. He was basely ruin'd, But let the Gods be griev'd that suffer'd it, And be you C?sar--
C?sar. 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.
C?sar. 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?
C?sar. You look now, King, And you that have been Agents in this glory, For our especial favour?
Ptol. We desire it.
C?sar. 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.
C?sar. 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