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Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest?
He knows him not his executioner.

O, she has decked his ruin with her love,
Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,
And made perdition pleasing: she has left him
The blank of what he was;

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmann'd him:
Can any Roman see, and know him now,

Thus alter'd from the lord of half mankind,
Unbent, unsinew'd, made a woman's toy,
Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,
And cramp'd within a corner of the world?
O, Antony,

Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends!
Bounteous as Nature; next to Nature's God!

Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them,

As bounty were thy being. Rough in battle,

As the first Romans, when they went to war;

Yet, after victory, more pitiful

Than all their praying virgins left at home!

Antony. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell❜d,

Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward

To be trod out by Cæsar?

Vent. [Aside.] On my soul,

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains.

Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this?

Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth

Has starv'd thy wanting age.

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Vent. How sorrow shakes him!

So, now the tempest tears him up by th' roots,
And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

[Aside.

Ant. [Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, the shadow of an emperor;

The place thou pressest on thy mother earth

Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;

Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then Octavia,
(For Cleopatra will not live to see it,)
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widow'd hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there.

I'll think no more on't.

Give me some music; look that it be sad:
I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,
And burst myself with sighing

'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy
I'm now turn'd wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,

[Soft music.

Stretch'd at my length beneath some blasted oak,
I lean my head upon the mossy bark,

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:

My uncomb'd locks, matted like misletoe,

Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook

Runs at my foot.

Vent. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

Ant. The herd come jumping by me,

And fearless quench their thirst, while I look on;
And take me for their fellow-citizen.

More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts.

[Soft music again.

Vent. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.

[Stands before him.

Ant. starting up. Art thou Ventidius?
Vent. Are you Antony?

I'm liker what I was, than you to him
I left you last.

Ant. I'm angry.

Vent. So am I.

Ant. I would be private: leave me.

Vent. Sir, I love you.

And therefore will not leave you.

Ant. Will not leave me?

Where have

you learnt that answer?

Who am I?

Vent. My emperor; the man I love next Heav'n: If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:

You're all that's good, and god-like.

Ant. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me then?

Vent. "Twas too presuming

Το say I would not; but, I dare not leave you,
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence

So soon, when I so far have come to see you.
Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;

And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew, [Weeping. I have not wept these forty years; but now

My mother comes afresh into my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By Heav'n, he weeps, poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down

The furrows of his cheeks. Stop them, Ventidius,

Or I shall blush to death: they set my shame,

That caused them, full before me.

Vent. I'll do my best.

Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:

See, I have caught it too; believe me, 'tis not

For my own griefs, but thine. Nay, father.

Vent. Emperor.

F

Ant. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory,
The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so: but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent. I warrant you.

Ant. Actium, Actium! Oh

Vent. It sits too near you.

Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams

Vent. Out with it;

Ant. Urge not my

I lost a battle.

give it vent.

shame.

Vent. So has Julius done.

Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou

think'st;

For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly:

But Antony

Vent. Nay, stop not.

Ant. Antony,

(Well, thou wilt have it) like a coward, fled,

Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.

I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

Vent. I did.

Ant. I'll help thee

-I have been a man, Ventidius.

Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but

Ant. I know thy meaning.

But, I have lost my reason, have disgrac'd
The name of soldier, with inglorious ease.
In the full vintage of my flowing honours,
Sate still, and saw it press'd by other hands.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it,
And purple greatness met my ripen'd years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
The wish of nations, and the willing world

Receiv'd me as its pledge of future peace;
I was so great, so happy, so belov'd,

Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains

And work'd against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turn'd her loose; yet still she came again.
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,
At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,
Gone, gone, divorc'd for ever. Help me, soldier,
To curse this madman, this industrious fool,
Who labour'd to be wretched: pr'ythee curse me.
Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings,
And like a scorpion, whipt by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distemper'd mind, and heal
Ant. I know thou would'st.

Vent. I will.

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Vent. You laugh.

Ant. I do, to see officious love

Give cordials to the dead.

Vent. You would be lost then?
Ant. I am.

Vent. I say, you are not.

your

fortunes.

Try your fortune.

Ant. I have to th' utmost.
Without just cause? No, when I found all lost
Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,
And learn'd to scorn it here; which now I do
So heartily, I think it is not worth
The cost of keeping.

Dost thou think me desperate,

Vent. Cæsar thinks not so:

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
You would be kill'd, like Tully, would you? do.
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

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