Is lost, if he descend once but to steer
His course, as what's right, guides him: let him leave
The Scepter, that strives only to be good,
Since Kingdomes are maintain'd by force and blood.

_Ach._ Oh wicked!

_Ptol._ Peace: goe on.

_Pho._ Proud Pompey shews how much he scorns your youth,
In thinking that you cannot keep your own
From such as are or'e come. If you are tired
With being a King, let not a stranger take
What nearer pledges challenge: resign rather
The government of _Egypt_ and of _Nile_
To _Cleopatra_, that has title to them,
At least defend them from the Roman _gripe_,
What was not _Pompeys_, while the wars endured,
The Conquerour will not challenge; by all the world
Forsaken and despis'd, your gentle Guardian
His hopes and fortunes desperate, makes choice of
What Nation he shall fall with: and pursu'd
By their pale ghosts, slain in this Civil war,
He flyes not _Cæsar_ only, but the Senate,
Of which, the greater part have cloi'd the hunger
Of sharp _Pharsalian_ fowl, he flies the Nations
That he drew to his Quarrel, whose Estates
Are sunk in his: and in no place receiv'd,
Hath found out _Egypt_, by him yet not ruin'd:
And _Ptolomy_, things consider'd, justly may