Wishers were ever fools;-O come, come, come; All. A heavy sight! Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying: Give me some wine, and let me speak a little. Ant. One word, sweet queen; Of Cæsar seek your honour, with your safety. O! Cleo. They do not go together. Ant. Gentle, hear me: None about Cæsar trust but Proculeius. Cleo. My resolution, and my hands, I'll trust; Ant. The miserable change now at my end Cleo. Noblest of men, woo't die? [Sinks. [ANTONY dies. The soldier's pole is fall'n; young boys and girls, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon. Char. O, quietness, lady. [CLEOPATRA Swoon Iras. She is dead too, our sovereign. Iras. Madam Char. O madam, madaın, madam ! Empress ! Char. Peace, peace, Iras. [Seeing her recover. Cleo. No more but e'en a woman; and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks, To rush into the secret house of death, Ere death dare come to us?How do you, women? What, what? good cheer! Why, how now, Char mian? My noble girls!—Ah, women, women! look Our lamp is spent, it's out:-Good sirs, take heart; We'll bury him and then, what's brave, what's noble, Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take us. Come, away: Ah, women, women! come; we have no friend [Exeunt. ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I. Camp before Alexandria. Enter OCTAVIUS CÆSAR, with DOLABELLA, AGRIPPA, MECENAS, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, and Others. Oct. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield; Being so frustrated, tell him he mocks The pauses that he makes. Dol. Cæsar, I shall. [Exit DOLABELLA. Enter DERCETAS, with ANTONY's Sword. Oct. Wherefore is that? and what art thou, that dar'st Appear thus to us? Der. I am call'd Dercetas; Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy He was my master; and I wore my life To spend upon his haters: If thou please To take me to thee, as I was to him I'll be to Cæsar; if thou pleasest not, I yield thee up my life. Oct. What is't thou say'st? Der. I say, O Cæsar, Antony, is dead. Oct. The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack in nature: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, H And citizens to their dens: The death of Antony Is not a single doom; in that name lay Der. He is dead, Cæsar; Not by a public minister of justice, Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand, I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd Oct. Look you sad, friends? The gods rebuke me, but it is a tidings Agrip. And strange it is, That nature must compel us to lament Oct. O Antony, I have follow'd thee to this:-But we do launch Have shown to thee such a declining day, Our equalness to this.--Hear me, good friends,— Enter MARDIAN. But I will tell you at some meeter season; sir? |