Ptol. We desire it.

  Caesar. And doubtless you expect rewards.

Sceva.  Let me give ’em:  I’le give ’em such as nature never dreamt of, I’le beat him and his Agents (in a morter) Into one man, and that one man I’le bake then.

Caesar.  Peace:  I forgive you all, that’s recompence:  You are young, and ignorant, that pleads your pardon, And fear it may be more than hate provok’d ye, Your Ministers, I must think, wanted judgment, And so they err’d:  I am bountiful to think this; Believe me most bountiful; be you most thankful, That bounty share amongst ye:  if I knew What to send you for a present, King of Egypt, (I mean a head of equal reputation And that you lov’d) though it were your brightest Sisters, (But her you hate) I would not be behind ye.

  Ptol. Hear me, (Great Caesar.)

Caes. I have heard too much, And study not with smooth shews to invade My noble Mind as you have done my Conquest.  Ye are poor and open:  I must tell ye roundly, That Man that could not recompence the Benefits, The great and bounteous services of Pompey, Can never dote upon the Name of Caesar; Though I had hated Pompey, and allow’d his ruine, [I gave you no commission to performe it:] Hasty to please in Blood are seldome trusty; And but I stand inviron’d with my Victories, My Fortune never failing to befriend me, My noble strengths, and friends about my Person, I durst not try ye, nor expect:  a Courtesie, Above the pious love you shew’d to Pompey.  You have found me merciful in arguing with you; Swords, Hangmen, Fires, Destructions of all natures, Demolishments of Kingdoms, and whole Ruines Are wont to be my Orators; turn to tears, You wretched and poor seeds of Sun-burnt Egypt, And now you have found the nature of a Conquerour, That you cannot decline with all your flatteries, That where the day gives light will be himself still, Know how to meet his Worth with humane Courtesies, Go, and embalm those bones of that great Souldier; Howl round about his Pile, fling on your Spices, Make a Sabaean Bed, and place this Phoenix Where the hot Sun may emulate his Vertues, And draw another Pompey from his ashes Divinely great, and fix him ’mongst the Worthies.

  Ptol. We will do all.

Caes. You have rob’d him of those tears His Kindred and his Friends kept sacred for him; The Virgins of their Funeral Lamentations:  And that kind Earth that thought to cover him, (His Countries Earth) will cry out ’gainst your Cruelty, And weep unto the Ocean for revenge, Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye; My grief has stopt the rest:  when Pompey liv’d He us’d you nobly, now he is dead use him so. [Exit.

Ptol. Now, where’s your confidence? your aim (Photinus) The Oracles, and fair