ons,
_Pompey_ no words my true griefe can declare,
This for thy loue shalbe my best welfare. _Stab her selfe._

ACT. 2. SCE. 3. {SN _Act II sc. iii_}

_Enter Caesar, Cleopatra, Anthony,
Dolobella, a Lord,_

_Caesar._ There sterne _Achillas_ and _Fortunius_ lie,
Traytorous _Sempronius_ and proud _Ptolomey_,
Go plead your cause fore the angry _Rhadamant_, 800
And tel him why you basely _Pompey_ slew.
And let your guilty blood appease his Ghost,
That now sits wandring by the Stygian bankes,
Vnworthy sacrifice to quite his worth,
For _Pompey_ though thou wert mine enemy,
And vayne ambition mou'd vs to this strife;
Yet now in death when strife and enuy cease.
Thy princely vertues and thy noble minde,
Moue me to rue thy vndeserued death,
That found a greater daunger then it fled; 810
Vnhapy man to scape so many wars,
And to protract thy glorious day so long,
Here for to perish in a barbarous soyle,
And end liues date stabd by a Bastards hand,
But yet with honour shalt thou be Intomb'd,
I will enbalme thy body with my teares,
And put thy ashes in an Vrne of gold,
And build with marble a deserued graue.
Whose worth indeede a Temple ought to haue.
_Dolo._ See how compassion drawes foorth Princely teares 820
And Vertue weepes her enemies funerall,
So sorrowed the mighty _Alexander_,
When _Bessus_ hand caus'd _Darius_ to die.
_Ant._ These greeued sorrowing Princes do with me,
Ioyntly agree in Contrariety,
Alacke we mourne, greeued is our mind alike,
Our gate is discontented, heauy our lookes,
Our sorrowes all a like, but dislike cause.
Their foe is their grifes causer which my friend,
It is the losse of one that makes them wayle, 830
But I, that one there is a cruell one,
Do wayle and greeue and vnregarded mone.
Fayre beames cast forth from these dismayfull eyes,
Chaine my poore heart, in loue and sorrowes giues,
_Cleo._ Forget sweete Prince these sad perlexed thoughts,
Withdraw thy mind in clowdy discontent,
And with _AEgiptian_ pleasures feed thine eyes,
Wilt thou be hould the Sepulchers of Kings,
And Monuments that speake the workemens prayse?
Ile bring thee to Great _Alexanders_ Tombe, 840
Where he, whome all the world could not