Page:All for love- or, The world well lost. A tragedy as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal; and written in imitation of Shakespeare's stile. By John Dryden, servant to His Majesty (IA allforloveorworl00indryd).pdf/28

Serap.Last night, between the hours of Twelve and One,
In a lone Isle o'th' Temple, while I walk'd,
A Whirl-wind rose, that, with a violent blast,
Shook all the Dome: the Doors around me clapt,
The Iron Wicket that defends the Vault,
Where the long Race of Ptolomies is lay'd,
Burst open, and disclos'd the mighty dead.
From out each Monument, in order plac'd,
An Armed Ghost start up: the Boy-King last
Rear'd his inglorious head. A peal of groans
Then follow'd, and a lamentable voice
Cry'd, Ægypt is no more. My blood ran back,
My shaking knees against each other knock'd;
On the cold pavement, down I fell intranc'd,
And so unfinish'd left the horrid scene.
Alexas showing himself.]
And, Dream'd you this? or, Did invent the Story?
To frighten our Ægyptian Boys withal,
And train 'em up betimes in fear of Priesthood?

Serap.My Lord, I saw you not,
Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what
I utter'd was most true.

Alex.A foolish Dream,
Bred from the fumes of indigested Feasts,
And holy Luxury.

Serap.I know my duty:
This goes no farther.

Alex.'Tis not fit it should.
Nor would the times now bear it, were it true.
All Southern, from you hills, the Roman Camp
Hangs o'er us black and threatning, like a Storm
Just breaking on our heads.

Serap.Our faint Ægyptians pray for Antony;
But in their Servile hearts they own Octavius.

Myr.Why then does Antony dream out his hours,
And tempts not Fortune for a noble Day,
Which might redeem, what Actium lost?

Alex.He thinks 'tis past recovery.

Serap.Yet the Foe
Seems not to press the Siege.

Alex.