become, on _Sipylus_ thou stand'st
In endles teares: yet didst thou neuer feele
The weights of griefe that on my heart do lie.
Thy Children thou, mine I poore soule haue lost,
And lost their Father, more then them I waile,
Lost this faire realme; yet me the heauens wrathe
Into a Stone not yet transformed hath.
_Phaetons_ sisters, daughters of the Sunne,
Which waile your brother falne into the streames
Of stately _Po_: the Gods vpon the bankes
Your bodies to banke-louing Alders turn'd.
For me, I sigh, I ceasles wepe, and waile,
And heauen pittiles laughes at my woe,
Reuiues, renewes it still: and in the ende
(Oh crueltie!) doth death for comfort lende.
Die _Cleopatra_ then, no longer stay
From _Antonie_, who thee at _Styx_ attends:
Goe ioine thy Ghost with his, and sobbe no more
Without his loue within these tombes enclos'd.

_Eras._ Alas! yet let vs wepe, lest sodaine death
From him our teares, and those last duties take
Vnto his tombe we owe. _Ch._ Ah let vs wepe
While moisture lasts, then die before his feete.

_Cl._ who furnish will mine eies with streaming teares
My boiling anguish worthilie to waile,
Waile thee _Antonie_, _Antonie_ my heart?
Alas, how much I weeping liquor want!
Yet haue mine eies quite drawne their Conduits drie
By long beweeping my disastred harmes.
Now reason is that from my side they sucke
First vitall moisture, then the vitall bloud.
Then let the bloud from my sad eies out flowe,
And smoking yet with thine in mixture growe.
Moist it, and heate it newe, and neuer stopp,
All watring thee, while yet remaines one dropp.

_Cha._ _Antonie_ take our teares: this is the last
Of all the duties we to thee can yelde,
Before we die.

_Er._ These sacred obsequies
Take _Antony_, and take them in good parte.

_Cl._ O Goddesse thou whom _Cyprus_ doth adore,
_Venus_ of _Paphos_, bent to worke vs harme
For olde _Iulus_ broode, if thou take care
Of _Caesar_, why of vs tak'st thou no care?
_Antonie_ did descend, as well as he,
From thine own Sonne by long enchained line:
And might haue rul'd by one and self same fate,
True _Troian_ bloud, the statelie _Romain_ state.
_Antonie_, poore _Antonie_, my deare soule,
Now but a blocke, the bootie of a tombe,
Thy life, thy heate is lost, thy coullor gone,
And hideous palenes on thy face hath seaz'd.
Thy eies, two Sunnes, the lodging place