;
On barraine cliffes of snowie _Caucasus_;
To Tigers swift, to Lions, and to Beares;
And rather, rather vnto euery coaste,
To eu'rie land and sea: for nought I feare
As rage of him, whose thirst no bloud can quench.
Adieu deare children, children deare adieu:
Good _Isis_ you to place of safetie guide,
Farre from our foes, where you your liues may leade
In free estate deuoid of seruile dread.
Remember not, my children, you were borne
Of such a Princelie race: remember not
So manie braue Kings which haue _Egipt_ rul'de
In right descent your ancestors haue bene:
That this great _Antonie_ your Father was,
_Hercules_ bloud, and more then he in praise.
For your high courage such remembrance will,
Seing your fall with burning rages fill.
Who knowes if that your hands false _Destinie_
The Scepters promis'd of imperiouse _Rome_,
In stede of them shall crooked shepehookes beare,
Needles or forkes, or guide the carte, or plough?
Ah learne t' endure: your birth and high estate
Forget, my babes, and bend to force of fate.
Farwell, my babes, farwell, my hart is clos'de
With pitie and paine, my self with death enclos'de,
My breath doth faile. Farwell for euermore,
Your Sire and me you shall see neuer more.
Farwell swete care, farwell.

_Chil._ Madame Adieu.

_Cl._ Ah this voice killes me. Ah good Gods! I swounde.
I can no more, I die.

_Eras._ Madame, alas!
And will you yeld to woe? Ah speake to vs.

_Eup._ Come children.

_Chil._ We come.

_Eup._ Follow we our chaunce.
The Gods shall guide vs.

_Char._ O too cruell lott!
O too hard chaunce! Sister what shall we do,
What shall we do, alas! if murthring darte
Of death arriue while that in slumbring swound
Half dead she lie with anguish ouergone?

_Er._ Her face is frozen.

_Ch._ Madame for Gods loue
Leaue vs not thus: bidd vs yet first farwell.
Alas! wepe ouer _Antonie_: Let not
His bodie be without due rites entomb'de.

_Cl._ Ah, ah.

_Char._ Madame.

_Cle._ Ay me!

_Cl._ How fainte she is?

_Cl._ My Sisters, holde me vp. How wretched I,
How cursed am! and was ther euer one
By Fortunes hate into more dolours throwne?
Ah, weeping _Niobe_, although thy hart
Beholdes itselfe enwrap'd in causefull woe
For thy dead children, that a senceless rocke
With griefe