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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 64 pages of information about The False One.
Sce. I do, when she is a goddess.  Thou melter of strong minds, dar’st thou presume To smother all his triumphs, with thy vanities, And tye him like a slave, to thy proud beauties?  To thy imperious looks? that Kings have follow’d Proud of their chains? have waited on?  I shame Sir. [Exit.
Caesar.  Alas thou art rather mad:  take thy rest Sceva, Thy duty makes thee erre, but I forgive thee:  Go, go I say, shew me no disobedience:  ’Tis well, farewel, the day will break dear Lady, My Souldiers will come in; please you retire, And think upon your servant.

  Cleo. Pray you Sir, know me,
  And what I am.

  Caesar.  The greater, I more love ye,
  And you must know me too.

  Cleo. So far as modesty,
  And majesty gives leave Sir, ye are too violent.

  Caesar.  You are too cold to my desires.

  Cleo. Swear to me,
  And by your self (for I hold that oath sacred)
  You will right me as a Queen—­

  Caesar.  These lips be witness,
  And if I break that oath—­

  Cleo. You make me blush Sir,
  And in that blush interpret me.

  Caesar.  I will do,
  Come let’s go in, and blush again:  this one word,
  You shall believe.

  Cleo. I must, you are a conquerour. [Exeunt.

ACTUS TERTIUS.  SCENA PRIMA.

    Enter Ptolomy, Photinus.

  Pho. Good Sir, but hear.

  Ptol. No more, you have undone me,
  That, that I hourly fear’d, is fain upon me,
  And heavily, and deadly.

  Pho. Hear a remedy.

Ptol. A remedy now the disease is ulcerous?  And has infected all? your secure negligence Has broke through all the hopes I have, and ruin’d me:  My Sister is with Caesar, in his chamber, All night she has been with him; and no doubt Much to her honour.

  Pho. Would that were the worst, Sir,
  That will repair it self:  but I fear mainly,
  She has made her peace with Caesar.

  Ptol. ’Tis most likely,
  And what am I then?

  Pho. ’Plague upon that Rascal
  Apollod[or]us, under whose command,
  Under whose eye—­

    Enter Achillas.

  Ptol. Curse on you all, ye are wretches.

  Pho. ’Twas providently done, Achillas.

  Achil. Pardon me.

  Pho. Your guards were rarely wise, and wondrous watchfull.

Achil. I could not help it, if my life had lain for’t, Alas, who would suspect a pack of bedding, Or a small Truss of houshold furniture?  And as they said, for Caesars use:  or who durst (Being for his private chamber) seek to stop it?  I was abus’d.

    Enter Achoreus.

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