Sep. The King will yet consider.

Achil. Here he comes Sir.

Ach. Yet if it be undone: hear me great Sir,

If this inhumane stroak be yet unstrucken,

If that adored head be not yet sever'd

From the most noble Body, weigh the miseries,

The desolations that this great Eclipse works,

You are young, be provident: fix not your Empire

Upon the Tomb of him will shake all Egypt,

Whose warlike groans will raise ten thousand Spirits,

(Great as himself) in every hand a thunder;

Destructions darting from their looks, and sorrows

That easy womens eyes shall never empty.

Pho. You have done well; and 'tis done, see Achillas,

And in his hand the head.

Ptol. Stay come no nearer,

Me thinks I feel the very earth shake under me,

I do remember him, he was my guardian,

Appointed by the Senate to preserve me:

What a full Majesty sits in his face yet?

Pho. The King is troubled: be not frighted Sir,

Be not abus'd with fears; his death was necessary,

If you consider, Sir, most necessary,

Not to be miss'd: and humbly thank great Isis,

He came so opportunely to your hands;

Pity must now give place to rules of safety.

Is not victorious Cæsar new arriv'd,

And enter'd Alexandria, with his friends,

His Navy riding by to wait his charges?

Did he not beat this Pompey, and pursu'd him?

Was not this great man, his great enemy?

This Godlike vertuous man, as people held him,

But what fool dare be friend to flying vertue?

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.

Cæsar. Ha?

Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar,

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, Cæsar,

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 Cæsar)

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 Cæsar)

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 Cæsar.

Sceva. Give me, hate, Gods.

Pho. This Cæsar 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.

Cæsar. 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 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