Our Gods can witness for me: yet, being young,
And not a free disposer of my self;
Let not a few hours, borrowed for advice,
Beget suspicion of unthankfulness,
(Which next to Hell I hate) pray you retire,
And take a little rest, and let his wounds
Be with that care attended, as they were
Carv'd on my flesh: good Labienus, think
The little respite, I desire shall be
Wholly emploi'd to find the readiest way
To doe great Pompey service.
Lab. May the gods
(As you intend) protect you. [Exit.
Ptol. Sit: sit all,
It is my pleasure: your advice, and freely.
Ach. A short deliberation in this,
May serve to give you counsel: to be honest,
Religious and thankfull, in themselves
Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish
Or gloss in the perswader; your kept faith,
(Though Pompey never rise to th' height he's fallen from)
Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion
Is (still committing it to graver censure)
You pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard
Of all you can call yours.
Ptol. What's yours, (Photinus?)
Pho. Achoreus (great Ptolomy) hath counsell'd
Like a Religious, and honest man,
Worthy the honour that he justly holds
In being Priest to Isis: But alas,
What in a man, sequester'd from the world,
Or in a private person, is prefer'd,
No policy allows of in a King,
To be or just, or thankfull, makes Kings guilty,
And faith (though prais'd) is punish'd that supports
Such as good Fate forsakes: joyn with the gods,
Observe the man they favour, leave the wretched,
The Stars are not more distant from the Earth
Than profit is from honesty; all the power,
Prerogative, and greatness of a Prince
Is lost, if he descend once but to steer
His course, as what's right, guides him: let him leave
The Scepter, that strives only to be good,
Since Kingdomes are maintain'd by force and blood.
Ach. Oh wicked!
Ptol. Peace: goe on.
Pho. Proud Pompey shews how much he scorns your youth,
In thinking that you cannot keep your own
From such as are or'e come. If you are tired
With being a King, let not a stranger take
What nearer pledges challenge: resign rather
The government of Egypt and of Nile
To Cleopatra, that has title to them,
At least defend them from the Roman gripe,
What was not Pompeys, while the wars endured,
The Conquerour will not challenge; by all the world
Forsaken and despis'd, your gentle Guardian
His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of
What Nation he shall fall with: and pursu'd
By their pale ghosts, slain in this Civil war,
He flyes not Cæsar only, but the Senate,
Of which, the greater part have cloi'd the hunger
Of sharp Pharsalian fowl, he flies the Nations
That he drew to his Quarrel, whose Estates
Are sunk in his: and in no place receiv'd,
Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruin'd:
And Ptolomy, things consider'd, justly may
Complain of Pompey: wherefore should he stain
Our Egypt, with the spots of civil war?
Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile
Doubted of Cæsar? wherefore should he draw
His loss, and overthrow upon our heads?
Or choose this place to suffer in? already
We have offended Cæsar, in our wishes,
And no way left us to redeem his favour
But by the head of Pompey.
Ach. Great Osiris,
Defend thy Ægypt from such cruelty,
And barbarous ingratitude!
Pho. Holy trifles,
And not to have place in designs of State;
This sword, which Fate commands me to unsheath,
I would not draw on Pompey, if not vanquish'd.
I grant it rather should have pass'd through Cæsar,
But we must follow where his fortune leads us;
All provident Princes measure their intents
According to their power, and so dispose them:
And thinkst thou (Ptolomy) that thou canst prop
His Ruines, under whom sad Rome now suffers?
Or 'tempt the Conquerours force when 'tis confirm'd?
Shall we, that in the Battail sate as Neuters
Serve him that's overcome? No, no, he's lost.
And though 'tis noble to a sinking friend
To lend a helping hand, while there is hope
He may recover, thy part not engag'd
Though one most dear, when all his hopes are dead,
To drown him, set thy foot upon his head.
Ach. Most execrable Counsel.
Pho. To be follow'd,
'Tis for the Kingdoms safety.
Ptol. We give up
Our absolute power to thee: dispose of it
As reason shall direct thee.
Pho. Good Achillas,
Seek out Septimius: do you but sooth him,
He is already wrought: leave the dispatch
To me of Labienus: 'tis determin'd
Already how you shall proceed: nor Fate
Shall alter it, since now the dye is cast,
But that this hour to Pompey is his last. [Exit.
SCENA II
Apol. Is the Queen stirring, Eros?
Eros.