Yet, ere I die, thus much my soul doth vow, Revenge shall sweeten death with ease of mind: And I will cause posterity shall know, How fair thou wert above all woman kind, And after-ages monuments shall find, Showing thy beauty's title, not thy name, Rose of the world, that sweeten'd so the same.'

This said, though more desirous yet to say,
(For sorrow is unwilling to give over)
He doth repress what grief should else bewray,
Lest he too much his passions should discover,
And yet respect scarce bridles such a lover,
So far transported, that he knows not whither,
For love and majesty dwell ill together.

"Then were my funerals not long deferred,
But done with all the rites pomp could devise,
At Godstow, where my body was interred,
And richly tomb'd in honourable wise,
Where yet as now scarce any note descries
Unto these times, the memory of me,
Marble and brass so little lasting be.

"For those walls, which the credulous devout
And apt-believing ignorant did found;
With willing zeal, that never call'd in doubt,
That time their works should ever so confound,
Lie like confused heaps as under ground.
And what their ignorance esteem'd so holy,
The wiser ages do account as folly.

"And were it not thy favourable lines
Re-edify'd the wreck of my decays,
And that thy accents willingly assigns
Some further date, and give me longer days,
Few in this age had known my beauty's praise.
But thus renew'd, my fame redeems some time,
Till other ages shall neglect thy rhyme.

"Then when confusion in her course shall bring
Sad desolation on the times to come :
When mirthless Thames shall have no swan to sing,
All music silent, and the Muses dumb;
And yet even then it must be known to some,
That once they flourish'd, though not cherish'd so,
And Thames had swans as well as ever Po.

A LETTER

FROM

OCTAVIA TO MARCUS ANTONIUS.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND MOST VIRTUOUS LADY, THE LADY MARGARET,

COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND.

ALTHOUGH the meaner sort (whose thoughts are
As in another region, far below
[plac'd,

The sphere of greatness) cannot rightly taste
What touch it hath, nor right her passions know:
Yet have I here adventur'd to bestow
Words upon grief, as my griefs comprehend,
And made this great afflicted lady show,
Out of my feelings, what she might have penn'd:
And here the same, I bring forth to attend
Upon thy reverend name, to live with thee
Most virtuous lady, that vouchsaf'st to lend
Ear to my notes, and comfort unto me,
That one day may thine own fair virtues spread,
Being secretary now but to the dead.

THE ARGUMENT.

UPON the second agreement (the first being broken through jealousy of a disproportion of eminency) between the triumviri Octavius Cæsar, Marcus Antonius, and Lepidus; Octavia, the sister of Octavius Cæsar, was married to Antonius, as a link to combine that which never yet, the greatest strength of Nature, or any power of nearest respect, could long hold together; who, made but the instrument of others' ends, and delivered up as an ostage, to serve the opportunity of advantages, met not with that integrity she brought; but as highly preferred to affliction, encountered with all the grievances that beat upon the misery of greatness, exposed to stand betwixt the diverse tending humours of unquiet parties: for Antony having yet upon him the fetters of Egypt, laid on by the power of a most incomparable beauty, could admit no new laws into the state of his affection, or dispose of himself, being not himself; but as having his heart turned eastward, whither the point of his desires are directed, touched with the strongest allurements that ambition and a licentious sovereignty could draw a man unto, could not truly descend to the private love of a civil nurtred matron, whose entertainment, bounded with modesty and the nature of her education, knew not to clothe her affections in any other colours than the plain habit of truth, wherein she ever suited all her actions, and used all her best ornaments of honesty, to win the good liking of him that held her, but as a curtain, drawn between him and Octavius, to shadow his other purposes withal, which the sharp sight of an equally jealous ambition would soon

A LETTER, &c.

To thee (yet dear) though most disloyal lord,
Whom impious love keeps in a barbarous land,
Thy wronged wife Octavia sendeth word
Of the unkind wounds received by thy hand;
Great Antony, O! let thine eyes afford
But to permit thy heart to understand

The hurt thou dost, and do but read her tears,
That still is thine, though thou wilt not be hers.
Although, perhaps, these my complaints may come
Whilst thou in th' arms of that incestuous queen,
The stain of Egypt, and the shame of Rome,
Shalt dallying sit, and blush to have them seen,
Whilst proud disdainful she, guessing from whom
The message came, and what the cause hath been,
Will scorning say, "Faith, this comes from your dear,
Now, sir, you must be shent for staying here."
From her indeed it comes, delicious dame,
(Thou royal concubine and queen of lust)
Whose arms yet pure, whose breasts are void of blame,
And whose most lawful flame proves thine unjust:
"T is she that sends the message of thy shame,
And his untruth that hath betray'd thy trust;
Pardon, dear lord, from her these sorrows are,
Whose bed brings neither infamy nor war.

And therefore hear her words, that too too much

Hath heard the wrongs committed by thy shame;
Although at first my truth in thee was such,
As it held out against the strongest fame;
My heart would never let in once a touch
Of least belief, till all confirm'd the same;
That I was almost last that would believe,
Because I knew me first that most must grieve.

How oft have poor abused I took part
With falsehood, only for to make thee true?
How oft have I argued against iny heart,
Not suffering it to know that which it knew?
And for I would not have thee what thou art,
I made myself unto myself untrue:
So much my love labour'd against my sin,
To shut out fear, which yet kept fear within.

For I could never think the aspiring mind
Of worthy and victorious Antony,
Could be by such a syren so declin'd,
As to be train'd a prey to luxury;
I could not think my lord would be s' unkind,
As to despise his children, Rome, and me;
But O! how soon are they deceiv'd that trust,
And more their shame, that will be so unjust.
But now that certain fame hath open laid
Thy new relapse, and strange revolt from me;
Truth hath quite beaten all my hopes away,
And made the passage of my sorrows free;
For now, poor heart, there's nothing in the way
Remains to stand betwixt despair and thee;
All is thrown down, there comes no succours sen,
It is most true, my lord is most untrue,
And now I may with shame enough pull in
The colours I advanced in his grace;
For that subduing power that him did win,
Hath lost me too the honour of my face:
Yet why should I, bearing no part of sin,
Bear such a mighty part of his disgrace?
Yes, though it be not mine, it is of mine;
And his renown being 'clips'd, mine cannot shine.

Which makes me, as I do, hide from the eye
Of the misjudging vulgar, that will deem,
That sure there was in me some reason why
Which made thee thus my bed to disesteem:
So that, alas! poor undeserving I

A cause of thy unclean deserts shall seem,
Though lust takes never joy in what is due,
But still leaves known delights to seek out new.

And yet my brother Cæsar laboured
To have me leave thy house, and live more free;
But God forbid Octavia should be led,
To leave to live in thine, though left by thee;
The pledges here of thy forsaken bed
Are still the objects that remember me,
What Antony was once, although false now,
And is my lord, though he neglect his vow.
These walls that here do keep me ought of sight,
Shall keep me all unspotted unto thee,
I'll never stain thy house, though thou shame me:
And testify that I will do thee right,
The now sad chamber of my once delight
Shall be the temple of my piety,
Sacred upto the faith I reverence,
Where I will pay my tears for thy offence.

Although my youth, thy absence, and this wrong
Might draw my blood to forfeit unto shame,
Nor need I frustrate my delights so long,
That have such means to carry so the same,
Since that the face of greatness is so strong,
As it dissolves suspect, and bears out blame,
Having all secret helps that long thereto,
That seldom wants there ought but will to do.

Which yet to do, ere lust this heart shall frame,
Earth swallow me alive, Hell wrap me hence:
Shall I, because despis'd, contemn my shame,
And add disgrace to others' impudence?
What can my power, but give more power to fame?
Greatness must make it great incontinence:
Chambers are false, the bed and all will tell,
No door keeps in their shame that do not well.

Hath greatness ought peculiar else alone,
But to stand fair and bright above the base?
What doth divide the cottage from the throne,
If vice shall lay both level with disgrace?
For if uncleanness make them but all one,
What privilege hath honour by his place?
What though our sins go brave and better clad,
They are as those in rags, as base, as bad.

I know not how, but wrongfully I know
Hath undiscerning custom plac'd our kind
Under desert, and set us far below
The reputation to our sex assign'd:
Charging our wrong reputed weakness, how
We are unconstant, fickle, false, unkind :
And though our life with thousand proofs shows no,
Yet since strength says it, weakness must be so.
Unequal partage, to b' allowed no share
Of power to do of life's best benefit;
But stand, as if we interdicted were
Of virtue, action, liberty, and might:
Must you have all, and not vouchsafe to spare
Our weakness any int'rest of delight?
Is there no portion left for us at all,
But sufferance, sorrow, ignorance, and thrall?
Thrice happy you, in whom it is no fault,
To know, to speak, to do, and to be wise:
Whose words have credit, and whose deeds, though
Must yet be made to seem far otherwise:
You can be only heard, whilst we are taught
To hold our peace, and not to exercise
The powers of our best parts, because your parts
Have with our freedom robb'd us of our hearts.

[naught,

We, in this prison of ourselves confin'd,
Must here shut up with our own passions live
Turn'd in upon us, and deny'd to find

The vent of outward means that might relieve:
That they alone must take up all our mind:
And no room left us, but to think and grieve.
Yet oft our narrow'd thoughts look more direct
Than your loose wisdoms, born with wild neglect.

For should we too (as God forbid we should)
Carry no better hand on our desires
Than your strength doth, what int'rest could
Our wronged patience pay you for your hires?
What mixture of strange generations would
Succeed the fortunes of uncertain sires?
What foul confusion in your blood and race,
To your immortal shame and our disgrace?

What, are there bars for us, no bounds for you?
Must levity stand sure, though firmness fall?
And are you privileg'd to be untrue,
And we no grant to be dispens'd withal?
Must we inviolable keep your due,

Both to your love and to your falsehood thrall?
Whilst you have stretch'd your lust upon your will,
As if your strength were licens'd to do ill.

Oh! if you be more strong, then be more just,
Clear this suspicion, make not th' world to doubt,
Whether in strong or weak be better trust,
If frailty or else valour be more stout:
And if we have shut in our hearts from lust,
Let not your bad example let them out,
Think that there is like feeling in our blood,
If you will have us good, be you then good.

Is it that love doth take no true delight
In what it hath, but still in what it would,
Which draws you on to do us this unright,
Whilst fear in us of loosing what we hold,
Keeps us in still to you, that set us light,
So that, what you unties, doth us infold?
Then Love, 't is thou that dost confound us so,
To make our truth, th' occasion of our woe.

Distressed womankind, that either must,
For loving loose your loves, or get neglect:
Whilst wantons are more car'd for than the just,
And falsehood cherish'd, faith without respect:
Better she fares in whom is lesser trust,
And more is lov'd that is in more suspect.
Which (pardon me) shows no great strength of mind
To be most theirs, that use you most unkind.

Yet well it fits, for that sin, ever must

Be tortur'd with the rack of his own frame;
For he that holds no faith, shall find no trust,
But sowing wrong, is sure to reap the same:
How can he look to have his measure just,
That fills deceit, and reckons not of shame,
And be'ng not pleas'd with what he hath in lot,
Shall ever pine for that which he hath not?
Yet if thou could'st not love, thou might'st have
seem'd,

Though to have seem'd had likewise been unjust:
That oft they feed, though not suffice our trust:
Yet so much are lean shows of us esteem'd,
Because our nature grieveth to be deem'd
To be so wrong'd, although we be, and must;
And it's some ease yet to be kindly us'd
In outward show, though secretly abus'd.
But woe to her that both in show despis'd,
And in effect disgrac'd, and left forlorn,
For whom no comforts are to be devis'd,
Nor no new hopes can evermore be born:
O Antony, could it not have suffic'd
That I was thine, but must be made her scorn,
That envies all her blood, and doth divide
Thee from thyself, only to serve her pride?

What fault have I committed that should make
So great dislike of me and of my love?
Or doth thy fault but an occasion take
For to dislike what most doth it reprove?
Because the conscience gladly would mistake
Her own misdeeds, which she would fain remove ;
And they that are unwilling to amend,
Will take offence, because they will offend.

Or having run beyond all pardon quite,
They fly and join with sin, as wholly his,
Making it now their side, their part, their right,
And to turn back, would show t' have done amiss:
For now they think, not to be opposite
To what upbraids their fault, were wickedness:
So much doth folly thrust them into blame,
That ev'n to leave off shame, they count it shame.

Which do not thou, dear lord, for I do not
Pursue thy fault, but sue for thy return
Back to thyself, whom thou hast both forgot
With me, poor me, that doth not spite, but mourn;
And if thou could'st as well amend thy blot
As I forgive, these plaints had been forborne:
And thou should'st be the same unto my heart,
Which onee thou wert, not that which now thou art.

Though deep doth sit the hard recovering smart
Of that last wound (which God grant be the last).
And more doth touch that tender feeling part
Of my sad soul, than all th' unkindness past:
And, Antony, I appeal to thine own heart, [hast)
(If th' heart which once was thine, thou yet still
To judge if ever woman that did live
Had juster cause, than wretched I, to grieve?

For coming unto Athens, as I did,

Weary and weak with toil, and all distress'd,
After I had with sorrow compassed

A hard consent, to grant me that request:
And how my travel was considered,

And all my care and cost, thyself knows best,
That would'st not move one foot from lust for me,
That had left all was dear to come to thee.

For first, what great ado had I to win
My offended brother Cæsar's backward will?
And pray'd, and wept, and cry'd to stay the sin
Of civil rancour, rising 'twixt you still:
For in what case shall wretched I be in,
Set betwixt both, to share with both your ill?
"My blood,” said I," with either of you goes,
Whoever win, I shall be sure to loose."

For what shame should such mighty persons get,
For two weak women's canse to disagree?
Nay, what shall I that shall be deem'd to set
Th' enkindled fire, seeming inflam'd for me?
O, if I be the motive of this heat,

Let these unguilty hands the quenchers be,
And let me trudge to mediate an accord,
The agent 'twixt my brother and my lord.
With prayers, vows, and tears, with urging hard,
I wrung from him a slender grant at last,
And with the rich provisions I prepar'd
For thy (intended) Parthian war made baste,
Weighing not how my poor weak body far'd,
But all the tedious difficulties past,
And came to Athens; whence I Niger sent,
To show thee of my coming and intent.

Whereof when he had made relation,
I was commanded to approach no near:
Then sent I back, to know what should be done
With th' horse, and men, and money I had there:
Whereat, perhaps, when some remorse begun
To touch thy soul, to think yet what we were,
Th' enchantress straight step'd 'twixt thy heart

and thee,

And intercepts all thoughts that came of me.

She arms her tears, the engines of deceit,
And all her battery to oppose my love,
And bring thy coming grace to a retreat,
The power of all her subtlety to prove:
Now pale and faint she languishes, and straight
Seems in a sound, unable more to move:
Whilst her instructed fellows ply thine ears
With forged passions, mix'd with feigned tears.

"Hard-hearted lord," say they, "how can'st thou
This mighty queen, a creature so divine, [see
Lie thus distress'd, and languishing for thee,
And only wretched, but for being thine?
Whilst base Octavia must entitled be
Thy wife, and she esteem'd thy concubine:
Advance thy heart, raise it unto his right,
And let a sceptre baser passions quit."

Thus they assail thy nature's weakest side,
And work upon th' advantage of thy mind,
Knowing where judgment stood least fortified,
And how t' encounter folly in her kind:
But yet the while, O what dost thou abide,
Who in thyself such wrestling thoughts dost find?
In what confused case is thy soul in,
Rack'd betwixt pity, sorrow, shame, and sin?

I cannot tell, but sure I dare believe
My travels needs must some compassion move:
For no such lock to blood could Nature give,
To shat out pity, though it shut out love:
Conscience must leave a little way to grieve,
To let in horrour, coming to reprove
The guilt of thine offence that caus'd the same,
For deepest wounds the hand of our own shame.

Never have unjust pleasures been complete,
In joys entire, but still fear kept the door,
And held back something from that full of sweet,
To intersour unsure delights the more:
For never did all circumstances meet
With those desires which were conceiv'd before,
Something must still be left to check our sin,
And give a touch of what should not have been.
Wretched mankind! wherefore hath Nature made
The lawful undelightful, th' unjust shame ?
As if our pleasure only were forbad,
But to give fire to lust, t' add greater flame:
Or else, but as ordained more to lade
Our heart with passions to confound the same;
Which though it be, yet add not worse to ill,
Do, as the best men do, bound thine own will.
Redeem thyself, and now at length make peace
With thy divided heart, oppress'd with toil :
Break up this war, this breast-dissention cease,
Thy passions to thy passions reconcile:
I do not only seek my good t' increase,
But thine own ease and liberty; the while
Thee in the circuit of thyself confine
And be thine own, and then thou wilt be mine.

I know my pitied love doth aggravate
Envy and wrath for these wrongs offered:
And that my sufferings add with my estate
Coals in thy bosom, hatred on thy head:
Yet is not that my fault, but my hard fate,
Of all but thee, than that my love should be
Who rather wish t' have been unpitied

Hurtful to him that is so dear to me.

Cannot the busy world let me alone,
To bear alone the burden of my grief,
But they must intermeddle with my moan,
And seek t' offend me with unsought relief?
Whilst my afflictions labour to move none
But only thee: must pity play the thief,
To steal so many hearts to hurt my heart,
And move a part against my dearest part?

Yet all this shall not prejudice my lord,
If yet he will but make return at last,
His sight shall raze out of the sad record
Of my inrolled grief all that is past:
And I will not so much as once afford
Place for a thought, to think I was disgrac'd;
And pity shall bring back again with me,
Th' offended hearts that have forsaken thee.