Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Katherine Philips, the matchless Orinda ; to which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace, tragedies ; with several other translations out of French.
Philips, Katherine, 1631-1664., Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684., Corneille, Pierre, 1606-1684.
SCEN. III.
Ptolomy, Cleopatra, Photinus.
CLEOPATRA.
Pompey is come (Sir) and can you be here?
PTOLOMY.
That mighty Warriour I at home attend,
And him Achillas and Septimius send.
CLEOPATRA.
What? such Embassadours as those to him?
PTOLOMY.
You may go too, if they too little seem:
CLEOPATRA.
Is your own meeting him, too great a thing?
PTOLOMY.
I must remember, that I am at King.
CLEOPATRA.
Can you reflect on that, and yet be slow
To kiss the hand of him, that made you so?
And pay you homage to a Man so great?
PTOLOMY.
Did he that Title in Pharsalia get?
CLEOPATRA.
Though none did his misfortunes help afford,
Hee's still that Pompey who your Crown restor'd.
PTOLOMY.
Rather his shade, and but my Father Crown'd,
By whose Ghost, not by me, it should be own'd.
Let him attend his Dust, and be content
To receive Thanks from his cold Monument.
PTOLOMY.
I both remember it and his Defeat.
CLEOPATRA.
You, do indeed but with a scornful Pride.
PTOLOMY.
Time is the Standard by which things are Try'd;
You, that so prize him may his greatness Court,
But know, He yet may perish in the Port.
CLEOPATRA.
What, may his Shipwrack in the Port arrive?
And have you dar'd his Ruine to contrive.
PTOLOMY.
I have done only what the Gods inspir'd,
And what the safety of my State requir'd.
CLEOPATRA.
I know but too much, Photin, and his Crew
Have with their wicked Councels poyson'd you:
Souls that are but of Natures Rubbish fram'd.
PHOTINUS.
The Councel, Madam, will not be disclaim'd.
CLEOPATRA.
'Tis the King, Photin, I discourse with now;
Stay then, till I descend to talke to you.
PTOLOMY.
You must a little with her scorn dispense,
I know her hatred, and your innocence;
But she's my Sister, give her humour vent.
CLOPATRA.
Sir, If too late it be not to repent,
Shake off at length, a Yoke that is so vile.
And call your Virtue back from her exile:
That magnanimity so great, and good,
Which is convey'd to Princes, with their Blood.
PTOLOMY.
Swell'd with a hope in vain by you foreseen,
You speak to me of Pompey, like a Queen:
Page 10
Through your false zeal, flashes of Pride escape;
And Interest does act in Virtues shape:
Confess it then, you had been silent still,
Were it not for the King our Father's Will;
You know who keep's it?
CLEOPATRA.
And you shall Know too,
Virtue alone prompts me to what I do.
For if I did my own advantage seek,
I should for Caesar, not for Pompey speak:
Receive a secret I conceal'd before,
And after that, never reproach me more.
When none that bold Rebellion could withstand,
Which rob'd our Father of his Crown and Land,
The injur'd King forsook his Native shore,
And Romes great Senate did for Aid Implore.
With him we went, their pitty to engage,
You very Young; but I was in an Age,
When Nature had supply'd my Eyes with Darts,
Already Active in subduing hearts.
Caesar receiv'd, or else pretended love,
And by his Actions, would his Passion prove,
But since the Senat's Pique to him he knew,
He their lov'd Pompey, to our party drew.
Whose high concern for us, on Caesar's score,
Was the last fruit their Friendship ever bore.
Of this you do inherit the event,
But such a Lover not with it content,
When by th' assistace of so great a Man,
In our behalf the Roman suffrage ran,
Resolving further Kindness to impart,
He gave his Treasure to attend his Heart:
And from the bounty of his growing flame,
Those sinews both of War and Power came:
Those thousand Talents which we owe him yet,
Forc'd our revolted Egypt to submit.
On this the King reflecting, when he dy'd
Betwixt us did his Dignity divide;
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And by his Sovereign Right, on me bestow'd
A part of what, he to my Beauty ow'd:
Whilst you, who this great reason never knew,
Thought that his Favour, which was but my due;
And Your dread Father, partial dar'd to call,
Who gave me half, when yet he ow'd me all.
PTOLOMY.
This Story, you with Art enough contrive.
CLEOPATRA.
I am assur'd, Caesar will soon arrive.
And a few hours will such a change effect,
As your Dark Policy did least expect.
And shew you why I spoke so like a Queen,
Who the loth'd Object of your scorn have been.
You in the Throne, usurp'd my equal seat,
And as a Slave you did your Sister Treat;
Till I was forc'd to shun a ruder Fate,
To stoop and Court your Ministers of State.
Whose steel or poyson, I still fear'd: but Know
Pompey or Caesar will secure me now;
And whatsoe're your Sycophants Ordain,
I now am sure my Scepter to obtain:
Till when my Pride shall leave you, to divine
In this Contest, what could be my design.
Ptolomy, Photin.
PTOLOMY.
What think you Photin, of this lofty Mind?
PHOTIN.
My spirt, Sir, to wonder is resign'd,
And nothing but amazement can express;
At such a secret as I nere could guess,
My thoughts are so unquiet and confus'd,
I scarce know what expedient should be us'd.
PTOLOMY.
Shall we save Pompey?
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PHOTIN.
Had you that decreed,
Yet it were now convenient he should bleed.
Your Sister hates you, she is fair and fierce,
And if she such Victorious Charmes disperse;
The head of Pompey only can suffice
To win the heart of Caesar from her Eyes.
PTOLOMY.
This dangerous Woman hath a busie wit.
PHOTIN.
But such a service will out-ballance it.
PTOLOMY.
But what if Caesar still her Pow'r obey?
PHOTIN.
Then flatter her, yet mind not what I say,
Till first you ask, in an affair so Nice,
Achillas and Septimius best advice.
PTOLOMY.
Lets from the Tow'r see them act Pompey's doom,
And this Debate at their return, resume.
After the first Act of Pompey, the King and Photin should be discovered, sitting and hearkning to this SONG.
SInce affairs of the State, are already decreed,
Make room for Affairs of the Court,
Employment and Pleasure each other succeed,
Because they each other support.
Were Princes confin'd
From slackening their Mind,
When by Care it is rufled and Curl'd.
A Crown would appear
Too heavy to wear
And no Man would govern the World.
If the Gods themselves who have power enough,
In diversions are various, and oft
Page 13Since the business of Kings is angry and rough,
Their Intervals ought to be soft.
Were Princes confin'd, &c.
To our Monarch we owe, whatsoer'e we enjoy:
And no grateful Subjects were those,
Who would not the safty, he gives them, employ
To contribute to his repose.
Were Princes confin'd, &c.
After which an Antick dance of Gypsies is presented.
