case,
The only trust, the only hope I haue,
In last despaire: Ah! is not this the daie
That death should me of life and loue bereaue?
What waite I for that haue no refuge left,
But am sole remnant of my fortune left?
All leaue me, flie me: none, no not of them
Which of my greatnes greatest good receiu'd,
Stands with my fall: they seeme as now asham'de
That heretofore they did me ought regarde:
They draw them back, shewing they folow'd me,
Not to partake my harm's, but coozen me.

_Lu._ In this our world nothing is stedfast found,
In vaine he hopes, who here his hopes doth gro[un]d.

_Ant._ Yet nought afflicts me, nothing killes me so,
As that I so my _Cleopatra_ see
Practize with _Caesar_, and to him transport
My flame, her loue, more deare then life to me.

_Lu._ Beleeue it not: Too high a heart she beares,
Too Princelie thoughts.

_Ant._ Too wise a head she weare
Too much enflam'd with greatnes, euermore
Gaping for our great Empires gouerment.

_Lu._ So long time you her constant loue haue tri'de.

_Ant._ But still with me good fortune did abide.

_Lu._ Her changed loue what token makes you know?

_An._ _Pelusium_ lost, and _Actian_ ouerthrow,
Both by her fraud: my well appointed fleet,
And trustie Souldiors in my quarell arm'd,
Whom she, false she, in stede of my defence,
Came to persuade, to yelde them to my foe:
Such honor _Thyre_ done, such welcome giuen,
Their long close talkes I neither knew, nor would,
And treacherouse wrong _Alexas_ hath me done,
Witnes too well her periur'd loue to me.
But you O Gods (if any faith regarde)
With sharpe reuenge her faithles change reward.

_Lu._ The dole she made vpon our ouerthrow,
Her Realme giuen vp for refuge to our men,
Her poore attire when she deuoutly kept
The solemne day of her natiuitie,
Againe the cost, and prodigall expence
Shew'd when she did your birth day celebrate,
Do plaine enough her heart vnfained proue,
Equally toucht, you louing, as you loue.

_Ant._ Well; be her loue to me or false, or true,
Once in my soule a cureles wound I feele.
I loue, nay burne in fire of her loue:
Each day, each night her Image haunts my minde,
Her selfe my dreams: and still I tired am,
And still I am with burning pincers nipt.
Extreame my harme: yet sweeter to my sence
Then boiling Torch of iealouse torments fire:
This grief, nay rage, in m