Look out bright eyes, and bless the air:

Even in shadows you are fair.

Shut-up-beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.

Though your body be confin'd,

And soft Love a prisoner bound,

Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check, nor chain hath found.

Look out nobly then, and dare

Even the Fetters that you wear.

Cleo. But that we are assur'd this tastes of duty,

And love in you, my Guardian, and desire

In you, my Sister, and the rest, to please us,

We should receive this, as a sawcy rudeness

Offer'd our private thoughts. But your intents

Are to delight us: alas, you wash an Ethiop:

Can Cleopatra, while she does remember

Whose Daughter she is, and whose Sister? (O

I suffer in the name) and that (in Justice)

There is no place in Ægypt, where I stand,

But that the tributary Earth is proud

To kiss the foot of her, that is her Queen,

Can she, I say, that is all this, e're relish

Of comfort, or delight, while base Photinus,

Bond-man Achillas, and all other monsters

That raign o're Ptolomy, make that a Court,

Where they reside, and this, where I, a Prison?

But there's a Rome, a Senate, and a Cæsar,

(Though the great Pompey lean to Ptolomy)

May think of Cleopatra.

Ap. Pompey, Madam?

Cleo. What of him? speak: if ill, Apollodorus,

It is my happiness: and for thy news

Receive a favour (Kings have kneel'd in vain for)

And kiss my hand.

Ap. He's lost.

Cleo. Speak it again!

Ap. His army routed: he fled and pursu'd

By the all-conquering Cæsar.

Cleo. Whither bends he?

Ap. To Egypt.

Cleo. Ha! in person?

Ap. 'Tis receiv'd

For an undoubted truth.

Cleo. I live again,

And if assurance of my love, and beauty

Deceive me not, I now shall find a Judge

To do me right: but how to free my self,

And get access? the Guards are strong upon me,

This door I must pass through. Apollodorus,

Thou often hast profess'd (to do me service,)

Thy life was not thine own.

Ap. I am not alter'd;

And let your excellency propound a means,

In which I may but give the least assistance,

That may restore you, to that you were born to,

(Though it call on the anger of the King,

Or, (what's more deadly) all his Minion

Photinus can do to me) I, unmov'd,

Offer my throat to serve you: ever provided,

It bear some probable shew to be effected.

To lose my self upon no ground, were madness,

Not loyal duty.

Cleo. Stand off: to thee alone,

I will discover what I dare not trust

My Sister with, Cæsar is amorous,

And taken more with the title of a Queen,

Than feature or proportion, he lov'd Eunoe,

A Moor, deformed too, I have heard, that brought

No other object to inflame his blood,

But that her Husband was a King, on both

He did bestow rich presents; shall I then,

That with a princely birth, bring beauty with me,

That know to prize my self at mine own rate,

Despair his favour? art thou mine?

Ap. I am.

Cleo. I have found out a way shall bring me to him,

Spight of Photinus watches; if I prosper,

(As I am confident I shall) expect

Things greater than thy wishes; though I purchase

His grace with loss of my virginity,

It skills not, if it bring home Majesty. [Exeunt.

Sep. 'Tis here, 'tis done, behold you fearfull viewers,

Shake, and behold the model of the world here,

The pride, and strength, look, look again, 'tis finish'd;

That, that whole Armies, nay whole nations,

Many and mighty Kings, have been struck blind at,

And fled before, wing'd with their fears and terrours,

That steel war waited on, and fortune courted,

That high plum'd honour built up for her own;

Behold that mightiness, behold that fierceness,

Behold that child of war, with all his glories;

By this poor hand made breathless, here (my Achillas)

Egypt, and Cæsar, owe me for this service,

And all the conquer'd Nations.

Ach. Peace Septimius,

Thy words sound more ungratefull than thy actions,

Though sometimes safety seek an instrument

Of thy unworthy nature, thou (loud boaster)

Think not she is bound to love him too, that's barbarous.

Why did not I, if this be meritorious,

And binds the King unto me, and his bounties,

Strike this rude stroke? I'le tell thee (thou poor Roman)

It was a sacred head, I durst not heave at,

Not heave a thought.

Sep. It was.

Ach. I'le tell thee truely,

And if thou ever yet heard'st tell of honour,

I'le make thee blush: It was thy General's;

That mans that fed thee once, that mans that bred thee,

The air thou breath'dst was his; the fire that warm'd thee,

From his care kindled ever, nay, I'le show thee,

(Because I'le make thee sensible of the business,

And why a noble man durst not touch at it)

There was no piece of Earth, thou putst thy foot on

But was his conquest; and he gave thee motion.

He triumph'd three times, who durst touch his person?

The very walls of Rome bow'd to his presence,

Dear to the Gods he was, to them that fear'd him

A fair and