Part 25

_Cleo._ Even 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 friendship, 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 forsake my fortunes, And join 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 is a trifle; For I could part with life, with any thing, But only you. O let me die but with you! Is that a hard request?

_Ant._ Next living with you, 'Tis all that heaven can give.

_Alex._ He melts; we conquer. [_Aside._

_Cleo._ No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too 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 strait your brow clears up, As I had never been.

_Ant._ Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear.

_Cleo._ What is't for me then, A weak forsaken woman, and a lover?-- Here let me breathe my last: envy me not This minute in your arms: I'll die apace, As fast as e'er I can; and end your trouble.

_Ant._ Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! My eyes, my soul, my all!-- [_Embraces her._

_Vent._ And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?

_Ant._ What is't, Ventidius? it out-weighs them all; Why, we have more than conquered Cæsar now: My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, And never look behind! Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

_Vent._ I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go?

_Ant._ Go! Whither? Go from all that's excellent! 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._ O 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._

## ACT III. SCENE I.

_At one door, enter_ CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, _and_ ALEXAS, _a Train of Egyptians: at the other,_ ANTONY _and Romans. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on_ ANTONY'S _part: then answered by timbrels, &c. on_ CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION _and_ IRAS _hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of Egyptians. After the ceremony,_ 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've 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 were unkind, and punish you, And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

_Ant._ My brighter Venus!

_Cleo._ O my greater Mars!

_Ant._ Thou join'st us well, my love! Suppose me come from the Phlegræan plains, Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, And mountain tops pared off each other blow, To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess! Let Cæsar spread his subtile 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, And blossoms rise to fill its empty place; And I grow rich by giving.

_Enter_ VENTIDIUS, _and stands apart._

_Alex._ O, 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 pr'ythee, spare me. [_Looking back._

_Vent._ But this one hearing, emperor.

_Ant._ Let go My robe; or, by my father Hercules--

_Vent._ By Hercules' father, that's yet greater, I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

_Ant._ Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, And I'll return. [_Exit._

_Vent._ I am waning in his favour, yet I love him; I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him; His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other.

_Enter_ ANTONY.

_Ant._ We can conquer, You see, without your aid. We have dislodged their troops; They look on us at distance, and, like curs 'Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward, Lie breathless on the plain.

_Vent._ 'Tis well; and he, Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain An easier peace, while Cæsar doubts the chance Of arms--

_Ant._ O think not on't, Ventidius! The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; His malice is considerate in advantage. O, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, He kills, and keeps his temper.

_Vent._ Have you no friend In all his army, who has power to move him? Mecænas, or Agrippa, might do much.

_Ant._ They're both too deep in Cæsar's interests. We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish.

_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 waste and barren place, To find a friend? the wretched have no friends. Yet I had 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 others 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's now in Cæsar's camp.

_Ant._ No matter where, Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly, That I forbade 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 departed, He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

_Vent._ It argues, that he loved you more than 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.

_Dola._ I must be silent, for my soul is busy About a noble 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 find'st me at my lowest water-mark. 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've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.

_Dola._ 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 silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal[2].

_Dola._ 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?

_Dola._ 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 upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first As accessary to thy brother's death?

_Dola._ Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty 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 Cydnos 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.

_Dola._ No more: I would not hear it.

_Ant._ O, 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 Cupids, 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 somewhat 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?

_Dola._ 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 you constrained the course, And robbed from nature, to supply desire; In you (I would not use so harsh a word) 'Tis but plain dotage.

_Ant._ Ha!

_Dola._ 'Twas urged too home.-- But yet the loss was private, that I made; 'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions; I had no world to lose, no people's love.

_Ant._ This from a friend?

_Dola._ Yes, Antony, a true one; A friend so tender, that each word I speak Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. O, judge me not less kind, because I chide! To Cæsar I excuse you.

_Ant._ O ye gods! Have I then lived to be excused to Cæsar?

_Dola._ As to your equal.

_Ant._ Well, he's but my equal: While I wear this, he never shall be more.

_Dola._ 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.

_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.

_Dola._ Not I; nor yet Mecænas, nor Agrippa: They were your enemies; and I, a friend, Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed.

_Ant._ 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man, Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; Let me but see his face.

_Vent._ That task is mine, And, heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [_Exit_ VENT.

_Dola._ You'll remember To whom you stand obliged?

_Ant._ When I forget it, Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. My queen shall thank him too.

_Dola._ I fear she will not.

_Ant._ But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella! Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?

_Dola._ 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?

_Dola._ 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?

_Dola._ 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 the lips.

_Ant._ I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

_Vent._ I sent for them; I brought them in, unknown. To Cleopatra's guards.

_Dola._ Yet, are you cold?

_Octav._ Thus long I have attended for my welcome; Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I?

_Ant._ Cæsar's sister.

_Octav._ 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 deserv'st it.

_Dola._ 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 life.

_Octav._ Begged it, my lord?

_Ant._ Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

_Octav._ Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant.

_Ant._ Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down And cry,--forgive me, Cæsar! shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, Forgive, would choke me up, And die upon my tongue.

_Dola._ You shall not need it.

_Ant._ I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,-- My friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries,--I'll tell my brother.

_Octav._ My hard fortune 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 loath; 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.

_Vent._ Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! } Both scorn to be obliged. } } _Dola._ O, she has touched him in the tenderest part; } See how he reddens with despite and shame, } _Apart._ To be out-done in generosity! } } _Vent._ See, how he winks! how he dries up a tear, } 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: For I can ne'er be conquered but by love; And you do all for duty. You would free me, And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?

_Octav._ It was, my lord.

_Ant._ Then I must be obliged To one who loves me not; who, to herself, May call me thankless and ungrateful man:-- I'll not endure it; no.

_Vent._ I am glad it pinches there. [_Aside._

_Octav._ Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue? That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life, And owed it to my duty, not my love. I have been injured, and my haughty soul Could brook but ill the man, who slights my bed.

_Ant._ Therefore you love me not.

_Octav._ Therefore, my lord, I should not love you.

_Ant._ Therefore you would leave me?

_Octav._ And therefore I should leave you--if I could.

_Dola._ 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._ O, Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra?

_Vent._ Justice and pity both plead for Octavia; For Cleopatra, neither. One would be ruined with you; but she first Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined, And yet she would preserve you. In every thing their merits are unequal.

_Ant._ O, my distracted soul!

_Octav._ Sweet heaven compose it!-- Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you, Methinks you should accept it. Look on these; Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, As they are mine? go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; For you may speak, and he may own you too, Without a blush; and so he cannot all His children: go, I say, and pull him to me, And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms; And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: If he will shake you off, if he will dash you Against the pavement, you must bear it, children; For you are mine, and I was born to suffer. [_Here the Children go to him, &c._

_Vent._ Was ever sight so moving?--Emperor!

_Dola._ Friend!

_Octav._ Husband!

_Both Child._ Father!