find my lord,
That we shall quickly meet.
A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,
And now 'tis at my head: My eyelids fall,
And my dear love is vanquished in a mist.
Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him,
And lay me on his breast!--Caesar, thy worst;
Now part us, if thou canst.
[Dies.]
[IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies;
CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.]

Enter SERAPION, two PRIESTS, ALEXAS bound, EGYPTIANS

PRIEST. Behold, Serapion,
What havoc death has made!

SERAPION. 'Twas what I feared.--
Charmion, is this well done?

CHARMION. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last
Of her great race: I follow her.
[Sinks down: dies.]

ALEXAS. 'Tis true,
She has done well: Much better thus to die,
Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

SERAPION. See how the lovers sit in state together,
As they were giving laws to half mankind!
The impression of a smile, left in her face,
Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived,
And went to charm him in another world.
Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure.
Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,
To grace the imperial triumph.--Sleep, blest pair,
Secure from human chance, long ages out,
While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb;
And fame to late posterity shall tell,
No lovers lived so great, or died so well.
[Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows
Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;
And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot:
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink or purple best become his face.
For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes.
He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his WRIT OF EASE.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex he begs to stand or fa