Cleopatra. The scorns of Octavius, the bite of the aspic, the waters of Lethe have so subdued my female vanity, that I will own to you I greatly suspect my greater success with my lover did not arise so much from my charms as in my skill of management of them.
Berenice. I can scarce understand you. Beauty and love I thought to be the greatest attractions. In the first you must have excell’d me, but in the second you certainly could not: I had beauty, youth, regal dignity, and an elevated mind. I was distinguished by many qualities and accomplishments which were so dedicated to my Lover, that of all I had been and all I could be, I was, I would be, only l’amante of Titus. I thought the next person in merit and dignity to Titus himself was the woman who ador’d him, and I was more proud of the homage I paid him, than of all I had receiv’d from lovers or subjects. But you, Cleopatra, had loved Cesar before Anthony, and other passions besides the gentle one of love seemed still to have your heart. Yet for you Anthony despised the dangers of war, the competition of a rival in Empire, the motives of military glory, and the resentment of a Senate and people not yet taught to submit to or flatter the passions of a master. Over these you triumph’d; but I was sacrificed to the low murmurs of the people, and the cautious counsels of gray-headed Statesmen. Was it that Minerva desired to triumph over Venus in the noblest and gentlest heart that ever was contain’d in the breast of mortal? Tell me, Cleopatra, for 1700 years have not made me forget my love and my grief?
Cleopatra. I have often with attention listen’d to your story; and your looks, on which still remain the sadness of a lover’s farewell, move my compassion. I wish I could have assisted you with my counsels when Titus was meditating your departure. I would have taught you those arts by which I enslaved the Soul of Anthony, and brought Ambition and the Roman Eagles to lye at my feet.
Berenice. Your arts would have been of little service to me, I had no occasion to counterfeit love. From Titus’s perfection one learn’d to love in reality beyond whatever fiction pretended; no feigned complaisance could imitate my sympathy; if he sigh’d I wept, if he was grave I grew melancholy, if he sicken’d I dyed. My heart echoed his praises, it beat for his glory, it rejoiced in his fortunes, it trembled at his dangers.
Cleopatra. Indeed, Berenice, you talk more like a Shepherdess than a great Queen. You might perhaps in the simplicity of pastoral life have engaged some humble Swain, but there was too much of nature and too little of art in your conduct, to captivate a man used to flattery, to pleasures, to variety. I find you was but the mirror of Titus, you gave him back his own image, while I presented every hour a new Cleopatra to Anthony. I was gay, voluptuous, haughty, gracious, fond and indifferent by turns; if he frown’d on me, I smiled on Dollabella; if he grew thoughtful, I turn’d the Banquet to a Riot. I dash’d the soberness of counsels by the vivacity of mirth, and gilded over his disgrace by show and magnificence; if his reason began to return, I subdued it by fondness, or disturb’d it by jealousy. Thus did I preserve my conquest, establish my fame, and put Anthony first in the list of
“all the mighty names by love undone.”
Had I only wept when honour and Octavia call’d him home I might have been the burthen of a love ballad, or subject of a tender Elegy, who now am the glory of our sex, and the great instance of beauty’s power. Do not you wish you had used the same managements?
Berenice. I might have used them had I loved the same man: Cleopatra, the coquette was a proper mistress for the Reveller Anthony; but the god-like Titus, the delight as well as Master of Mankind, left no part of the heart unengaged and at liberty to dissemble. What had not yielded to his wisdom, submitted to his witt, was subdued by his magnanimity, or won by his gentleness; when affection does not vary, behaviour cannot change; and methinks Anthony should have quitted you from distrust of your love, and Titus have retain’d me from confidence in mine. After what you have told me, I am more than ever surprised at your fate and my own.
Cleopatra. If you want this explain’d ask Eneas, Theseus, Jason, and the infinite multitude of faithless lovers, but if my authority will pass, believe me Anthony was preserved by his doubt of my love, and Titus was lost by his confidence in yours. Do not look so concern’d. From the era of your disaster to this very day you will find every faithful and fond Berenice discarded, while the gay, vain, and capricious fair one is to her Anthony a Cleopatra and the “world well lost.”
From the following letter of Dr. Young’s to Mrs. Montagu it would appear that she had sent this dialogue for him to read.