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And take ten thousand kisses for that word.

My lord, my lord! Speak, if you yet have being;

Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do anything that shows you live.

Iras. He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul.

Char. Remember, madam, He charg'd you not to grieve.

Cleo. And I'll obey him.

I have not lov'd a Roman, not to know

Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly What should become his wife; his wife, too:

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my Charmion!

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Char. Whatever you resolve,

I'll follow, ev'n to death.

Iras. I only fear'd

For you; but more should fear to live

without you.

Quick, my friends,

Wert worthy so to triumph.

Char. To what end

These ensigns of your pomp and royalty? Cleo. Dull, that thou art! why, tis to meet my love;

Cleo. Why, now 'tis as it should be. As when I saw him first, on Cydnus' bank, All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorn'd, I'll find him once. again; my second spousals

Despatch; ere this, the town's in Cæsar's hands:

My lord looks down concern'd, and fears my stay,

Lest I should be surpris'd;

Keep him not waiting for his love too

long.

You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels,

With 'em, the wreath of victory I made.
(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies
dead:

You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.
Iras. The aspics, madam?
Cleo. Must I bid you twice?

(Exit CHARMION and IRAS) 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me,

To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure.

We're now alone, in secrecy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not

see me;

And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.-Oh, welcome, welcome!

(Enter CHARMION and IRAs)

Char. What must be done?
Cleo. Short ceremony, friends;

But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel

Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely,

Nor left his shield behind him.-Only thou

Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone

Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,

And dress the bride of Antony.

Char. 'Tis done.

Cleo. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place;

For I must conquer Cæsar too, like him, And win my share o' th' world. Hail, you dear relics

Of my immortal love!

O let no impious hand remove you hence, But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give His death that peace, which it denied his life.

Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit The aspic lies.

Cleo. (Putting aside the leaves) Wel

come, thou kind deceiver!

Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key,

Dost open life, and, unperceiv'd by us, Ev'n steal us from ourselves; discharging

SO

Death's dreadful office better than himself;

Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,

That Death stands by, deceiv'd by his own image,

And thinks himself but sleep.

Serap. (within) The queen, where is she?

The town is yielded; Cæsar's at the gates. Cleo. He comes too late t' invade the

rights of death.

Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury.

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Serap. (within) Break ope the door, Cæsar's just entering: grief has now no

And guard the traitor well.

Char. The next is ours.

Iras. Now, Charmion, to be worthy Of our great queen and mistress.

(They apply the aspics)

Cleo. Already, death, I feel thee in
my veins:

I go with such a will to find my lord,
That we shall quickly meet.

A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,

And now 'tis at my head: my eyelids fall,

And my dear love is vanquish'd in a mist.

Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him,

leisure.

Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,

To grace th' imperial triumph.-Sleep, blest pair,

Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb;

And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers liv'd so great, or died so well. (Exeunt)

EPILOGUE

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail.

And lay me on his breast!-Cæsar, thy Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through worst;

Now part us, if thou canst. (Dies) (IRAS sinks down at her fect, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head)

(Enter SERAPION, two Priests, ALEXAS bound, Egyptians)

Priest. Behold, Serapion, what havoc death has made!

Serap. 'Twas what I fear'd. Charmion, is this well done?

Char. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last

Of her great race: I follow her. (Sinks down: dies)

Alex. 'Tis true,

the pit;

And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this diff'rence

grows,

Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in

prose!

For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and

blood.

The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;

And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot:

For 'tis observ'd of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, If pink or purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;

Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;

He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes. He does his best; and if he cannot please,

Would quietly sue out his writ of ease. Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. Let Cæsar's pow'r the men's ambition

move,

But grace you him who lost the world for love!

Yet if some antiquated lady say,
The last age is not copied in his play;
Heav'n help the man who for that face
must drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.

Let not the young and beauteous join with those;

For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,

Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;

'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

FORMS IN THE HEROIC COUPLET: POPE

MOCK EPIC: VERSE ESSAY: RIMED EPISTLE

THE characteristic verse form of the eighteenth century is the heroic couplet. This is a rather rigid metre in which each line contains just ten syllables, broken by a pause in the middle (generally after the fourth syllable). The lines are united in pairs by end rime, and each couplet, so far as possible, expresses a complete idea. The form lends itself admirably to the use of antithesis and requires epigrammatic terseness. All sorts of things were written in this verse, including many that we should put in prose. The three types here represented are the mock epic, the verse essay, and the rimed epistle.

The mock epic makes use of exaggerated epic devices, with humorous intent, in the treatment of a trivial subject. The incident which furnished the suggestion for the Rape of the Lock (1712; enlarged 1714), was the affront which one Lord Petre gave a famous beauty, Miss Arabella Fermor, by snipping from her head a lock of hair. The theft resulted in an estrangement between the two young people, and a friend of both suggested that Pope should write a playful skit on the subject as a means of reconciling them. The lady at first was more annoyed than conciliated by this attempt, but Pope later revised his poem, adding largely to the fairy elements, and produced a truly delightful bit of verse.

The Essay on Criticism (1711) is valuable as a summary of the classical ideal in literature that prevailed in Pope's day. The professed aim of the age was to "follow the ancients," although their critical standards were chiefly known at second hand. Vida and Boileau had written treatises similar to Pope's and had found their inspiration chiefly in Horace's Art of Poetry. Pope was indebted to them all. From them he adopted what he found to his taste, adding certain observations of his own in keeping with what he borrowed. Pope lacked the broad acquaintance with literature on which any universal literary creed must be formulated. But the Essay on Criticism with all its arbitrary and conventional views is so completely in keeping with the spirit of the time, and so fully and so skilfully expresses the critical ideals of the day, that it is a document of genuine importance.

The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot (1735), later called the Prologue to the Satires, is the most autobiographical of Pope's several rimed epistles. Pope had been subjected to numerous attacks, public and private, and he took occasion in this poem to defend himself, assert his independence of court and patron, and justify his general position. The self-righteousness of his attitude is characteristic.

Alexander Pope was the dominating figure in English poetry during most of his life. He suffered from ill health and deformity, and his disposition was not pleasant.

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