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, Dol. Still you are lord of all the world to me. 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 Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide : Ant. Take heed, young man, eyes, love! the queen has 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, Stood fanning with their painted wings the winds, For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? 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 Ant. Oh, ye gods! 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. Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay. Dol. As to your equal. Ant. Well, he's but my equal: Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he Is full of deep dissembling, knows no honour Vent. Then, granting this, What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper To honourable terms? Ant. It was my Dolabella, or some god. that man, Show me Oct. That's unkind! Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness, And prompts ine not to seek what you should offer; Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride: Let me but see his face! Vent. That task is mine, And heaven! thou know'st how pleasing. Dol. You'll remember, To whom you stand obliged? Ant. When I forget it, [Exit Vent. Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. Dol. I fear she will not. Ant. But she shall do it. The queen, my Do- Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? Ant. Where Octavia there! [Starting back. Dol. For shame, my lord, if not for love, re- With kinder eves. If you confess a man, I come to claim you as my own, to show And so she does. She's neither too submissive, Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life. Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Ant. Shall I, who to my kneeling slave could Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes: To rule the east. I may be dropt at Athens ; Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! | You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms, Both scorn to be obliged. Dol. Oh, she has touched him in the tender- See how he reddens with despite and shame, Vent. See how he winks! how he dries up a That fain would fall! Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise The greatness of your soul, But cannot yield to what you have proposed; Ant. Then I must be obliged To one, who loves me not, who to herself Vent. I'm glad it pinches there. Oct. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue? That pride was all I had to bear me up, I have been injured, and my haughty soul Ant. Therefore, you love me not. I should not love you. Ant. Therefore you would leave me. Oct. And therefore I should leave you-if I could. Dol. Her soul's too great, after such injuries, To say she loves, and yet she lets you see it. Her modesty and silence plead her cause. Ant. Oh, Dolabella! which way shall I turn? One would be ruined with you, but she first In every thing their merits are unequal. For you may speak, and he may own you too His children. Go, I say, and pull him to me, woman: And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: Ant. I am vanquished: take me, Octavia, take me, children, share me all. [Embracing them. I have been a thriftless debtor to your loves, Oct. Oh, blest hour! Vent. My joy stops at my tongue! But it has found two channels here for one, Ant. [To Oct.] This is thy triumph: lead me Even to thy brother's camp. Enter ALEXAS hastily. Be sure to be the first; haste forward; Haste, my dear eunuch, haste! [Exit. Aler. This downright fighting fool, this thickskulled hero, This blunt unthinking instrument of death, Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and train. Cleo. Peace with thy raven's note! I know it too, and now am in The pangs of death. Alex. You are no more a queen, Egypt is lost. Cleo. What tellest thou me of Egypt! My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him! Oh, fatal name to Cleopatra's love! My kisses, my embraces, now are her's, While I-But thou hast seen my rival; speak, Does she deserve this blessing? is she fair? Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made Of that coarse matter, which, when she was fi nished, The gods threw by for rubbish. Alex. She is indeed a very miracle. Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra? Cleo. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra. To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world Oct. Be it so then; take thy wish. [Exit with Vent. Cleo. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost, for whom I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances And swims before me in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn: But now she's gone they faint. Alex. Mine have had leisure Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras. There I till death will his unkindness weep, [Exeunt. ACT IV. SCENE I-A Saloon. Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA. Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Dol. WHY would you shift it from yourself on Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing, me? He's rough by nature. Ant. Oh, he'll speak too harshly, He'll kill her with the news: thou, only thou, Dol. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood.—I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest. Ant. Therefore, therefore Thou, only thou, art fit. Think thyself me, Dol. What you have said so sinks into my soul, I sent her word to meet you. I forgot: [Goes to the door, and comes back. Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine: Dol. Fear not, I will remember. [Antony goes again to the door, and comes back. Ant. And tell her too, how much I was constrained; I did not this but with extremest force. [Goes out and returns again. The news would break my heart-Now I must go, For every time, I have returned, I feel But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Enter VENTIDIUS above. Vent. Alone, and talking to himself! Concerned too! Perhaps my guess is right: he loved her once, And may pursue it still. Dol. Oh, friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this, reason worse: To ruin her yet more with Antony. [Aside. Enter CLEOPATRA, talking with ALEXAS, CHARMION, and IRAS, on the other side. Dol. She comes! what charms have sorrow on that face! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet now and then a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day. Vent. If she should love him too! Her eunuch there! That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil! that I may hear. [Dolabella goes over to Charmion and Iras, seems to talk with them. To make him jealous; jealousy is like A polished glass, held to the lips, when life's in doubt: If there be breath, 'twill catch the lamp and show it. Cleo. I grant you jealousy's a proof of love, Alex. "Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: He stands already more than half suspected |