The False One eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 84 pages of information about The False One.

  Pho. For then Sir
  Your Countreys cause falls with ye too, and fetter’d: 
  All AEgypt shall be plough’d up with dishonour.

  Ptol. No more:  I am sensible:  and now my spirit
  Burns hot within me.

  Achil. Keep it warm and fiery.

  Pho. And last be counsel’d.

  Ptol. I will, though I perish.

  Pho. Goe in; we’l tell you all:  and then we’l execute.



    Enter Cleopatra, Arsino, Eros.

  Ars. You are so impatient.

Cleo. Have I not cause?  Women of common Beauties, and low Births, When they are slighted, are allow’d their angers, Why should not I (a Princess) make him know The baseness of his usage?

  Ars. Yes:  ’tis fit: 
  But then again you know what man.

Cleo. He is no man:  The shadow of a Greatness hangs upon him, And not the vertue:  he is no Conquerour, H’as suffer’d under the base dross of Nature:  Poorly delivered up his power to wealth, (The god of bed-rid men) taught his eyes treason Against the truth of love:  he has rais’d rebellion:  Defi’d his holy flames.

  Eros. He will fall back again,
  And satisfie your Grace.

Cleo. Had I been old, Or blasted in my bud, he might have shew’d Some shadow of dislike:  But, to prefer The lustre of a little art, Arsino, And the poor glow-worm light of some faint Jewels, Before the life of Love, and soul of Beauty, Oh how it vexes me! he is no Souldier, (All honourable Souldiers are Loves servants) He is a Merchant; a meer wandring Merchant, Servile to gain:  he trades for poor Commodities, And makes his Conquests, thefts; some fortunate Captains That quarter with him, and are truly valiant, Have flung the name of happy Caesar on him, Himself ne’re won it:  he is so base and covetous, He’l sell his sword for gold.

  Ars. This is too bitter.

Cleo. Oh I could curse my self, that was so foolish, So fondly childish to believe his tongue, His promising tongue, e’re I could catch his temper, I had trash enough to have cloy’d his eyes withal, His covetous eyes; such as I scorn to tread on:  Richer than e’re he saw yet, and more tempting; Had I known he had stoop’d at that, I had sav’d mine honour, I had been happy still:  but let him take it, And let him brag how poorly I am rewarded:  Let him goe conquer still weak wretched Ladies:  Love has his angry Quiver too, his deadly, And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest:  I am a fool to fret thus, for a fool:  An old blind fool too:  I lose my health?  I will not:  I will not cry:  I will not honour him With tears diviner than the gods he worships:  I will not take the pains to curse a poor thing.

  Eros.  Doe not:  you shall not need.

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The False One from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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