The False One: A Tragedy. Beaumont Francis

      Lab. May the gods

      (As you intend) protect you. [Exit.

      Ptol. Sit: sit all,

      It is my pleasure: your advice, and freely.

      Ach. A short deliberation in this,

      May serve to give you counsel: to be honest,

      Religious and thankfull, in themselves

      Are forcible motives, and can need no flourish

      Or gloss in the perswader; your kept faith,

      (Though Pompey never rise to th' height he's fallen from)

      Cæsar himself will love; and my opinion

      Is (still committing it to graver censure)

      You pay the debt you owe him, with the hazard

      Of all you can call yours.

      Ptol. What's yours, (Photinus?)

      Pho. Achoreus (great Ptolomy) hath counsell'd

      Like a Religious, and honest man,

      Worthy the honour that he justly holds

      In being Priest to Isis: But alas,

      What in a man, sequester'd from the world,

      Or in a private person, is prefer'd,

      No policy allows of in a King,

      To be or just, or thankfull, makes Kings guilty,

      And faith (though prais'd) is punish'd that supports

      Such as good Fate forsakes: joyn with the gods,

      Observe the man they favour, leave the wretched,

      The Stars are not more distant from the Earth

      Than profit is from honesty; all the power,

      Prerogative, and greatness of a Prince

      Is lost, if he descend once but to steer

      His course, as what's right, guides him: let him leave

      The Scepter, that strives only to be good,

      Since Kingdomes are maintain'd by force and blood.

      Ach. Oh wicked!

      Ptol. Peace: goe on.

      Pho. Proud Pompey shews how much he scorns your youth,

      In thinking that you cannot keep your own

      From such as are or'e come. If you are tired

      With being a King, let not a stranger take

      What nearer pledges challenge: resign rather

      The government of Egypt and of Nile

      To Cleopatra, that has title to them,

      At least defend them from the Roman gripe,

      What was not Pompeys, while the wars endured,

      The Conquerour will not challenge; by all the world

      Forsaken and despis'd, your gentle Guardian

      His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of

      What Nation he shall fall with: and pursu'd

      By their pale ghosts, slain in this Civil war,

      He flyes not Cæsar only, but the Senate,

      Of which, the greater part have cloi'd the hunger

      Of sharp Pharsalian fowl, he flies the Nations

      That he drew to his Quarrel, whose Estates

      Are sunk in his: and in no place receiv'd,

      Hath found out Egypt, by him yet not ruin'd:

      And Ptolomy, things consider'd, justly may

      Complain of Pompey: wherefore should he stain

      Our Egypt, with the spots of civil war?

      Or make the peaceable, or quiet Nile

      Doubted of Cæsar? wherefore should he draw

      His loss, and overthrow upon our heads?

      Or choose this place to suffer in? already

      We have offended Cæsar, in our wishes,

      And no way left us to redeem his favour

      But by the head of Pompey.

      Ach. Great Osiris,

      Defend thy Ægypt from such cruelty,

      And barbarous ingratitude!

      Pho. Holy trifles,

      And not to have place in designs of State;

      This sword, which Fate commands me to unsheath,

      I would not draw on Pompey, if not vanquish'd.

      I grant it rather should have pass'd through Cæsar,

      But we must follow where his fortune leads us;

      All provident Princes measure their intents

      According to their power, and so dispose them:

      And thinkst thou (Ptolomy) that thou canst prop

      His Ruines, under whom sad Rome now suffers?

      Or 'tempt the Conquerours force when 'tis confirm'd?

      Shall we, that in the Battail sate as Neuters

      Serve him that's overcome? No, no, he's lost.

      And though 'tis noble to a sinking friend

      To lend a helping hand, while there is hope

      He may recover, thy part not engag'd

      Though one most dear, when all his hopes are dead,

      To drown him, set thy foot upon his head.

      Ach. Most execrable Counsel.

      Pho. To be follow'd,

      'Tis for the Kingdoms safety.

      Ptol. We give up

      Our absolute power to thee: dispose of it

      As reason shall direct thee.

      Pho. Good Achillas,

      Seek out Septimius: do you but sooth him,

      He is already wrought: leave the dispatch

      To me of Labienus: 'tis determin'd

      Already how you shall proceed: nor Fate

      Shall alter it, since now the dye is cast,

      But that this hour to Pompey is his last. [Exit.