The False One: A Tragedy. Beaumont Francis

speedy,

      And something worth my danger: you are cold,

      And know not your own powers: this brow was fashion'd

      To wear a Kingly wreath, and your grave judgment,

      Given to dispose of monarchies, not to govern

      A childs affairs, the peoples eye's upon you,

      The Souldier courts you: will you wear a garment

      Of sordid loyalty when 'tis out of fashion?

      Pho. When Pompey was thy General, Septimius,

      Thou saidst as much to him.

      Sep. All my love to him,

      To Cæsar, Rome, and the whole world is lost

      In the Ocean of your Bounties: I have no friend,

      Project, design, or Countrey, but your favour,

      Which I'le preserve at any rate.

      Pho. No more;

      When I call on you, fall not off: perhaps

      Sooner than you expect, I may employ you,

      So leave me for a while.

      Sep. Ever your Creature. [Exit.

      Pho. Good day Achoreus; my best friend Achillas,

      Hath fame deliver'd yet no certain rumour

      Of the great Roman Action?

      Achil. That we are

      To enquire, and learn of you Sir: whose grave care

      For Egypts happiness, and great Ptolomies good,

      Hath eyes and ears in all parts.

Enter Ptolomy, Labienus, Guard

      Pho. I'le not boast,

      What my Intelligence costs me: but 'ere long

      You shall know more. The King, with him a Roman.

      Ach. The scarlet livery of unfortunate war

      Dy'd deeply on his face.

      Achil. 'Tis Labienus

      Cæsars Lieutenant in the wars of Gaul,

      And fortunate in all his undertakings:

      But since these Civil jars he turn'd to Pompey,

      And though he followed the better Cause

      Not with the like success.

      Pho. Such as are wise

      Leave falling buildings, flye to those that rise;

      But more of that hereafter.

      Lab. In a word, Sir,

      These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave,

      Speak Pompey's loss: to tell you of the Battail,

      How many thousand several bloody shapes

      Death wore that day in triumph: how we bore

      The shock of Cæsars charge: or with what fury

      His Souldiers came on as if they had been

      So many Cæsars, and like him ambitious

      To tread upon the liberty of Rome:

      How Fathers kill'd their Sons, or Sons their Fathers,

      Or how the Roman Piles on either side

      Drew Roman blood, which spent, the Prince of weapons,

      (The sword) succeeded, which in Civil wars

      Appoints the Tent on which wing'd victory

      Shall make a certain Stand; then, how the Plains

      Flow'd o're with blood, and what a cloud of vulturs

      And other birds of prey, hung o're both armies,

      Attending when their ready Servitors,

      (The Souldiers, from whom the angry gods

      Had took all sense of reason, and of pity)

      Would serve in their own carkasses for a feast,

      How Cæsar with his Javelin force'd them on

      That made the least stop, when their angry hands

      Were lifted up against some known friends face;

      Then coming to the body of the army

      He shews the sacred Senate, and forbids them

      To wast their force upon the Common Souldier,

      Whom willingly, if e're he did know pity,

      He would have spar'd.

      Ptol. The reason Labienus?

      Lab. Full well he knows, that in their blood he was

      To pass to Empire, and that through their bowels

      He must invade the Laws of Rome, and give

      A period to the liberty of the world.

      Then fell the Lepidi, and the bold Corvini,

      The fam'd Torquati, Scipio's, and Marcelli,

      (Names next to Pompeys, most renown'd on Earth)

      The Nobles, and the Commons lay together,

      And Pontique, Punique, and Assyrian blood

      Made up one crimson Lake: which Pompey seeing,

      And that his, and the fate of Rome had left him

      Standing upon the Rampier of his Camp,

      Though scorning all that could fall on himself,

      He pities them whose fortunes are embarqu'd

      In his unlucky quarrel; cryes aloud too

      That they should sound retreat, and save themselves:

      That he desir'd not, so much noble blood

      Should be lost in his service, or attend

      On his misfortunes: and then, taking horse

      With some few of his friends, he came to Lesbos,

      And with Cornelia, his Wife, and Sons,

      He's touch'd upon your shore: the King of Parthia,

      (Famous in his defeature of the Crassi)

      Offer'd him his protection, but Pompey

      Relying on his Benefits, and your Faith,

      Hath chosen Ægypt for his Sanctuary,

      Till he may recollect his scattered powers,

      And try a second day: now Ptolomy,

      Though he appear not like that glorious thing

      That three times rode in triumph, and gave laws

      To conquer'd Nations, and made Crowns his gift

      (As this of yours, your noble Father took

      From his victorious hand, and you still wear it

      At his devotion) to do you more honour

      In his declin'd estate, as the straightst Pine

      In a full grove of his yet flourishing friends,

      He flyes to you for succour, and expects

      The entertainment of your Fathers friend,

      And Guardian to your self.

      Ptol. To say I grieve his fortune

      As much as if the Crown I wear (his gift)

      Were ravish'd