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Vent. Well pushed: that last was home.
Cleo. Yet may I speak?

Ant. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else not.
Your silence says I have not. Fulvia died:
(Pardon, you gods! with my unkindness died.)
To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,
This Cæsar's sister. In her pride of youth
And flower of beauty did I wed that lady,
Whom, blushing, I must praise, although I left
her.

You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons :
This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours.
I would have fought by land, where I was stronger;
You hindered it; yet, when I fought by sea,
Forsook me fighting; and-oh stain to honour!
Oh lasting shame! I knew not that I fled,
But fled to follow you.

Vent. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails!

And to appear magnificent in flight,
Drew half our strength away.

Ant. All this you caused:

And would you multiply more ruins on me?
This honest man, my best, my only friend,
Has gathered up the shipwreck of
my fortunes:
Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits,
And you have watched the news, and bring your

eyes

To seize them too. If you have aught to answer, Now speak, you have free leave.

Aler. She stands confounded:

Despair is in her eyes.

[Aside.

Vent. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage;

Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions:
Tis like they shall be sold.

Cleo. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,

Already have condemned me? Shall I bring
The love, you bore me, for my advocate?
That now is turned against me, that destroys me;
For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten,
But oftener sours to hate. It will please my lord
To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty;
But could I once have thought it would have

pleased you,

That you would pry with narrow searching eyes
Into my faults, severe to my destruction,
And watching all advantages with care,
That serve to make me wretched! Speak, my
lord,

For I end here. Though I deserve this usage,
Was it like you to give it?

Ant. Oh, you wrong me,

To think I sought this parting, or desired

To accuse you more than what will clear myself,
And justify this breach.

Cleo. Thus low I thank you,
And, since my innocence will not offend,
I shall not blush to own it.

Vent. After this, I think she'll blush at nothing.

Cleo. You seem grieved

(And therein you are kind) that Cæsar first
Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better;
For had I first been yours, it would have saved
My second choice; I never had been his,
And ne'er had been but yours. But Cæsar first,
You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord:
He first possessed my person, you my love:
Cæsar loved me, but I loved Antony:
If I endured him after, 'twas because
I judged it due to the first name of men;
And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant,
What he would take by force.

Vent. Oh, siren! siren!

Yet grant that all the love she boasts were truc,
Has she not ruined you? I still urge that,
The fatal consequence.

Cleo. The consequence indeed,
For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe,
To say it was designed. It is true I loved you,
And kept you far from an uneasy wife,
Such Fulvia was.

Yes; but he'll say you left Octavia for me:
And can you blame me to receive that love,
Which quitted such desert for worthless me?
How often have I wished some other Cæsar,
Great as the first, and as the second young,
Would court my love, to be refused for you!
Vent. Words, words! but Actium, sir, remem-
ber Actium!

Cleo. Ev'n there I dare his malice. True, I
counselled

To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not:
I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear:
Would I had been a man not to have feared!
For none would then have envied me your friend-
ship,

Who envy me your love.

Ant. We are both unhappy:

If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us.
Speak! would you have me perish by my stay?
Cleo. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go;
If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish-
'Tis a hard word-but stay.

Vent. See now the effects of her so boasted
love!

She strives to drag you down to ruin with her;
But could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon
Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore,
And never look behind!

Cleo. Then judge my love by this.
[Giving Antony a writing.

Could I have borne

A life or death, a happiness or woe,
From yours divided, this had given me means.
Ant. By Hercules the writing of Octavius!
I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand,
Young as it was, that led the way to mine,
And left me but the second place in murder—
See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt,

And joins all Syria to it as a present,
So in requital she forsakes my fortunes,
And joins her arms with his.

Cleo. And yet you leave me!

You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you!
Indeed I do! I have refused a kingdom,
That's a trifle;

For I could part with life, with any thing,
But only you.
Oh let me die but with you!

Is that a hard request?

Ant. Next living with you

'Tis all, that heaven can give.

Aler. He melts; we conquer.

[Aside.

Cleo. No, you shali go; your interest call you hence:

Yes, your dear interest pulls to strong for these
Weak arms to hold you here- [Takes his hand.
Go, leave me, soldier,

(For you're no more a lover) leave me dying;
Push me all pale and panting from your bosom,
And, when your march begins, let one run after,
Breathless almost for joy, and cry, She's dead!
The soldiers shout. You then perhaps may sigh,
And muster all your Roman gravity;
Ventidius chides, and straight your brow clears
up,

As I had never been.

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Faith, honour, virtue, all good things, forbid
That I should go from her, who sets my love
Above the price of kingdoms. Give, you gods!
Give to your boy, your Cæsar,
This rattle of a globe to play withal,
This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off;
I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

Cleo. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy,

That I shall do some wild extravagance
Of love in public, and the foolish world,
Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
Vent. Oh women! women! women! all the
gods

Have not such power of doing good to man
As you of doing harm.

[Exit.

Ant. Our men are armed:
Unbar the gate, that looks to Cæsar's camp;
I would revenge the treachery he meant me,
And long security makes conquest easy.
I'm eager to return before I go,

For all the pleasures I have known beat thick
On my remembrance. How I long for night!
That both the sweets of mutual love may try,
And triumph once o'er Cæsar ere we die.
[Exeunt.

АСТ III.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a train of Egyptians, ANTONY and Romans;

CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY.

Ant. I THOUGHT how those white arms would fold me in,

And strain me close and melt me into love: So pleased with that sweet image I sprung forwards,

And added all my strength to every blow."
Cleo. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my
arms!

You have been too long away from my embraces;
But when I have you fast, and all my own,
With broken murmurs and with amorous sighs
I'll say you are unkind, and punish you,
And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

Ant. My brighter Venus!
Cleo. Oh, my greater Mars!

Ant. Thou joinest us well, my love.
Suppose me come from the Phlegræan plains,
Where gasping giants lay cleft by my sword,
And mountain-tops par'd off each other blow
To bury those I slew; receive'me, goddess!
Let Cæsar spread his subtle nets, like Vulcan;
In thy embraces I would be beheld
By heaven and earth at once,

And make their envy what they meant their sport,

Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,
With awful state, regardless of their frowns,
As their superior god.

There's no satiety of love in thee;
Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring
Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,

1

And blossoms rise to fill its empty place,
And I grow rich by giving.

Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart.
Aler. Oh, now the danger's past, your general

comes;

He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs,
But with contracted brows looks frowning on,
As envying your success.

Ant. Now, on my soul, he loves me, truly loves me;
He never flattered me in any vice,
But awes me with his virtue: even this minute,
Methinks, he has a right of chiding me.
Lead to the temple; I'll avoid his presence;
It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest.
[As Antony is going, Ventidius pulls him
by the robe.
Vent. Emperor!

Ant. 'Tis the old argument; I prithee spare

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Vent. Fain I would find some other.

Ant. Thank thy love.

Some four or five such victories as this Will save thy farther pains.

Vent. Expect no more; Cæsar is on his guard.
I know, sir, you have conquered against odds;
But still you draw supplies from one poor town,
And of Egyptians; he has all the world,
And at his beck nations come pouring in
To fill the gaps you make. Pray think again.
Ant. Why dost thou drive me from myself to
search

For foreign aids, to hunt my memory,
And range all o'er a wide and barren place,
To find a friend? The wretched have no
friends-

Yet I have one, the bravest youth of Rome,
Whom Cæsar loves beyond the love of women;
He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax,
From that hard rugged image melt him down,
And mould him in what softer form he pleased.
Vent. Him would I see, that man of all the
world!

Just such a one we want.

Ant. He loved me too;

I was his soul; he lived not but in me :
We were so closed within each other's breasts,
The rivets were not found, that joined us first,
That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt
As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost:
We were one mass: we could not give or take
But from the same; for he was I, I he.

Vent. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.
Ant. After this

I need not tell his name: 'twas Dolabella.
Vent. He is now in Cæsar's camp.

Ant. No matter where,

Since he is no longer mine. He took unkindly,
That I forbad him Cleopatra's sight,
Because I feared he loved her. He confest
He had a warmth, which for my sake he stifled;
For 'twere impossible, that two, so one,
Should not have loved the same. When he de-

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her,

Else he had staid; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend. I know he loves you.

Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now. Vent. Perhaps

He has thus long been labouring for your peace. Ant. Would he were here!

Vent. Would you believe he loved you?

I read your answer in your eyes, you would.
Not to conceal it longer, he has sent

A messenger from Cæsar's camp with letters.
Ant. Let him appear.

Vent. I'll bring him instantly.

[Exit Ventidius, and re-enters immediately with Dolabella.

Ant. 'Tis he himself, himself! by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him. Art thou returned at last, my better half! Come, give me all myself!

Let me not live,

If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,
Was ever half so fond!

Dol. I must be silent, for my soul is busy
About a nobler work. She's new come home,
Like a long absent man, and wanders o'er
Each room, a stranger to her own, to look
If all be safe.

Ant. Thou hast what's left of me,

For I am now so sunk from what I was,
Thou findest me at my lowest watermark:
The rivers, that ran in, and raised my fortunes,
Are all dried up, or take another course
What I have left is from my native spring;
I have still a heart, that swells, in scorn of fate,
And lifts me to my banks.

Dol. Still you are lord of all the world to me.
Ant. Why then, I yet am so, for thou art all!
If I had any joy, when thou wert absent,
I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed
Thee of thy part. But oh, my Dolabella!
Thou hast beheld me other than I am-
Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled
With sceptered slaves, who waited to salute me?
With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,
To worship my uprising? Menial kings
Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,
Stood silenced in my presence, watched my eyes,
And, at my least command, all started out,
Like racers to the goal.

Dol. Slaves to your fortune.

Ant. Fortune is Cæsar's now; and what am I? Vent. What you have made yourself: I will not flatter.

Ant. Is this friendly done?

Dol. Yes, when his end is so: I must join with
him,

Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide:
Why am I else your friend?

Ant. Take heed, young man,

How thou upbraidest my love! the queen has eyes,

And thou too hast a soul! Canst thou remember When, swelled with hatred, thou beheldest her first,

As accessary to thy brother's death?

Ant. Oh, you must!

She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look so languishingly sweet,

As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,
Neglecting she could take them. Boys, like Cu-
pids,

Stood fanning with their painted wings the winds,
That played about her face; but if she smiled,
A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,
That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,
But hung upon the object! To soft flutes
The silver oars kept time, and while they played,
The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight,
And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or some-
what more!

For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds
Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath
To give their welcome voice.

Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul?
Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder?
Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes,
And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not,
That I accused her of my brother's death!

Dol. And should my weakness be a plea for
yours?

Mine was an age, when love might be excused, When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth

Made it a debt to nature: yours

Vent. Speak boldly:

Yours, he would say, in your declining age,
When no more heat was left but what you forced,
When all the sap was needful for the trunk,
When it went down, then they constrained the

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Dol. Spare my remembrance! 'twas a guilty Have I then lived to be excused to Cæsar!

day,

And still the blush hangs here.

Ant. To clear herself

For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.
Her galley down the silver Sydnos rowed,
The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold,
The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails,
Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were
placed,

Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay,
Dol. No more! I would not hear it!

Dol. As to your equal.

Ant. Well, he's but my equal:

While I wear this, he never shall be more.
Dol. I bring conditions from him.
Ant. Are they noble?

Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet

he

Is full of deep dissembling, knows no honour
Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him,
For Nature meant him for an usurer:
He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.

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Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?
Dol. I would not see her lost.
Ant. When I forsake her,
Leave me my better stars, for she has truth
Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her
At no less price than kingdoms to betray me;
But she resisted all and yet thou chidest me
For loving her too well. Could I do so?
Dol. Yes; there's my reason.

Re-enter VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, leading
Antony's two little Daughters.

Ant. Where Octavia there! [Starting back. Vent. What! is she poison to you? a disease? Look on her, view her well, and those she brings: Are they all strangers to your eyes? has Nature No secret call, no whisper, they are yours?

Dol. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them

With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.

Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,

To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings

To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out, And aim a kiss, ere you could reach their lips. Ant. I stood amazed to think how they came hither.

Vent. I sent for them; I brought them in, unknown

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Oct. That's unkind!

Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,
Know I had still remained in Cæsar's camp:
But your Octavia, your much injured wife,
Though banished from your bed, driven from
your house,

In spite of Cæsar's sister, still is yours.
'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,
And prompts me not to seek what you should
offer;

But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride :
I come to claim you as my own, to show
My duty first, to ask, nay beg, your kindness.
Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it.
[Taking his hand.
Vent. Do take it, thou deservest it.
Dol. On my soul,

And so she does. She's neither too submissive,
Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean
Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my
Oct. Begged it, my lord!

Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress;
Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.
Oct. Poorly and basely I could never beg,
Nor could my brother grant.

life.

Ant. Shall I, who to my kneeling slave could

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Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes:
But the conditions I have brought are such
You need not blush to take. I love your honour,
Because 'tis mine. It never shall be said
Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.
Sir, you are free, free even from her you loathe;
For though my brother bargains for your love,
Makes me the price and cement of your peace,
I have a soul like yours; I cannot take
Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.
I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;
He shall draw back his troops, and you shall
march

To rule the east. I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where; I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble.

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