Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Modern English Drama, Vol. 18: Dryden, Sheridan, Goldsmith, Shelley, Browning, Byron
Myr. Avert these omens, Heaven! Seraf. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind 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 Ptolemies is laid, Burst Open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene. Alex. And dreamed you this? Or did invent the story, [showing himself. To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? Seraf. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but I uttered was most true. Alex. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. Seraf. I know my duty This goes no further. Alex. 'tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm Just breaking on our heads. Seraf. Our faint Egyptians 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.
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