The False One: A Tragedy. Beaumont Francis

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      Cæsar. Ha?

      Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar,

      From kingly Ptolomy I bring this present,

      The Crown, and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour:

      The goal and mark of high ambitious honour.

      Before thy victory had no name, Cæsar,

      Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompence,

      Thou dreamst of being worthy, and of war;

      And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers,

      Here they take life: here they inherit honour,

      Grow fixt, and shoot up everlasting triumphs:

      Take it, and look upon thy humble servant,

      With noble eyes look on the Princely Ptolomy,

      That offers with this head (most mighty Cæsar)

      What thou would'st once have given for it, all Egypt.

      Ach. Nor do not question it (most royal Conquerour)

      Nor dis-esteem the benefit that meets thee,

      Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer:

      Yet let me tell thee (most imperious Cæsar)

      Though he oppos'd no strength of Swords to win this,

      Nor labour'd through no showres of darts, and lances:

      Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly,

      An inward war: he was his Grand-sires Guest;

      Friend to his Father, and when he was expell'd

      And beaten from this Kingdom by strong hand,

      And had none left him, to restore his honour,

      No hope to find a friend, in such a misery;

      Then in stept Pompey; took his feeble fortune:

      Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again,

      This was a love to Cæsar.

      Sceva. Give me, hate, Gods.

      Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked,

      But yet remember, if thine own hands, Conquerour,

      Had fallen upon him, what it had been then?

      If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way!

      He was thy Son in Law, there to be tainted,

      Had been most terrible: let the worst be render'd,

      We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent.

      Cæsar. Oh Sceva, Sceva, see that head: see Captains,

      The head of godlike Pompey.

      Sceva. He was basely ruin'd,

      But let the Gods be griev'd that suffer'd it,

      And be you Cæsar—

      Cæsar. Oh thou Conquerour,

      Thou glory of the world once, now the pity:

      Thou awe of Nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

      What poor fate follow'd thee, and pluckt thee on

      To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian;

      The life and light of Rome, to a blind stranger,

      That honorable war ne'r taught a nobleness,

      Nor worthy circumstance shew'd what a man was,

      That never heard thy name sung, but in banquets;

      And loose lascivious pleasures? to a Boy,

      That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,

      No study of thy life to know thy goodness;

      And leave thy Nation, nay, thy noble friend,

      Leave him (distrusted) that in tears falls with thee?

      (In soft relenting tears) hear me (great Pompey)

      (If thy great spirit can hear) I must task thee:

      Thou hast most unnobly rob'd me of my victory,

      My love, and mercy.

      Ant. O how brave these tears shew!