ANTHONY. Immortal powers, that know the painful cares
That wait upon my poor distressed heart,
O, bend your brows, and level all your looks
Of dreadful awe upon these daring men!
And thou, sweet niece of Atlas, on whose lips
And tender tongue the pliant muses sit,
Let gentle course of sweet aspiring speech,
Let honey-flowing terms of weary woe,
Let fruitful figures and delightful lines
Enforce a spring of pity from their eyes,
Amaze the murd'rous passions of their minds,
That they may favour woful Anthony.
O countrymen, what shall become of Rome,
When reverend duty droopeth through disgrace?
O countrymen, what shall become of Rome,
When woful nature, widow of her joys,
Weeps on our walls to see her laws depress'd?
O Romans, hath not Anthony's discourse
Seal'd up the mouths of false seditious men,
Assoil'd[145] the doubts and quaint controls of power,
Relieved the mournful matron with his pleas?
And will you seek to murder Anthony?
The lions brook with kindness their relief;
The sheep reward the shepherd with their fleece;
Yet Romans seek to murder Anthony.
1ST SOLDIER. Why, what enchanting terms of art are these, That force my heart to pity his distress?
2D SOLDIER. His action, speech, his favour and his grace, My rancour rage and rigour doth deface.
3D SOLDIER. So sweet his words, that now of late, meseems, His art doth draw my soul from out my lips.
ANTHONY. What envious eyes, reflecting nought but rage,
What barbarous heart, refresh'd with nought but blood,
That rends not to behold the senseless trees
In doly[146] season drooping without leaves?
The shepherd sighs upon the barren hills,
To see his bleating lambs with faintful looks
Behold the valleys robb'd of springing flowers,
That whilom wont to yield them yearly food.
Even meanest things, exchang'd from former state,
The virtuous mind with some remorse doth mate.
Can then your eyes with thundering threats of rage
Cast furious gleams of anger upon age?
Can then your hearts with furies mount so high,
As they should harm the Roman Anthony?
I, far more kind than senseless tree, have lent
A kindly sap to our declining state,
And like a careful shepherd have foreseen
The heavy dangers of this city Rome;
And made the citizens the happy flock,
Whom I have fed with counsels and advice:
But now those locks that, for their reverend white,
Surpass the down on Aesculapius' chin:
But now that tongue, whose terms and fluent style
For number pass'd the hosts of heavenly fires:
But now that head, within whose subtle brains
The queen of flowing eloquence did dwell—
Enter a CAPTAIN.
These locks, this tongue, this head, this life, and all,
To please a tyrant, trait'rously must fall.
CAPTAIN. Why, how now, soldiers, is he living yet?
And will you be bewitched with his words?
Then take this fee, false orator, from me: [Stabs him.
Elysium best beseems thy faintful limbs.
ANTHONY. O blissful pains! now Anthony must die, Which serv'd and lov'd Rome and her empery. [_Moritur[147].
CAPTAIN. Go, curtal off that neck with present stroke,
And straight present it unto Marius.