all follow him laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!

Iras.

Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! for, as it is a heart-breaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded: Therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly!

Char.

Amen.

Alex.

Lo, now! if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but they'd do't.

Eno.
Hush! here comes Antony.

Char.
Not he, the queen. Enter Cleopatra.

Cleo.
Saw you my lord^{7 note}?

Eno.
No, lady.

Cleo.
Was he not here?

Char.
No, madam.

Cleo.
He was dispos'd to mirth; but on the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him.—Enobarbus,—

Eno.
Madam.

Cleo.
Seek him, and bring him hither. Where's Alexas?

Alex.
Here^{8 note}, at your service.—My lord approaches.

Enter Antony, with a Messenger and Attendants.

Cleo.
We will not look upon him: Go with us. [Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Alexas, Iras, Charmian, Soothsayer, and Attendants.

Mess.
Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

Ant.
Against my brother Lucius?

Mess.
Ay:
But soon that war had end, and the time's state
Made friends of them, jointing their force 'gainst Cæsar;
Whose better issue in the war, from Italy,
Upon the first encounter drave them^{9 note}

Ant.
Well, what worst?

Mess.
The nature of bad news infects the teller.

Ant.
When it concerns the fool, or coward.—On:
Things, that are past, are done, with me.—'Tis thus;
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
I hear him as he flatter'd.

Mess.
Labienus
(This is stiff news^{1 note}
) hath, with his Parthian force,
Extended Asia from Euphr&ashort;tes^{2 note}

His conquering banner shook, from Syria
To Lydia, and to Iönia;
Whilst—

Ant.
Antony, thou would'st say,—

Mess.
O, my lord!

Ant.
Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue;
Name Cleopatra as she's call'd in Rome:
Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase; and taunt my faults
With such full licence, as both truth and malice
Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds,

When our quick minds lie still^{3 note}

Mess.
At your noble pleasure. [Exit.

Ant.
From Sicyon how the news? Speak there.

1 Att.
The man from Sicyon.—Is there such an one?

2 Att.
He stays upon your will^{4 note}
.

Ant.
Let him appear,—
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Enter another Messenger.
Or lose myself in dotage.—What are you?

2 Mess.
Fulvia thy wife is dead.

Ant.
Where died she?

2 Mess.
In Sicyon:
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives a Letter.

Ant.
Forbear me.— [Exit Messenger.
There's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:
What our contempts do often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again^{5 note}
; the present pleasure,
By revolution lowering, does become
The opposite of itself^{6 note}

Enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

What's your pleasure, sir?

Ant.

I must with haste from hence.

Eno.

Why, then, we kill all our women: We see how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they suffer our departure, death's the word.

Ant.

I must be gone.

Eno.

Under a compelling occasion, let women die: It were pity to cast them away for nothing; though, between them and a great cause, they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment^{8 note}: I do think, there is mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

Ant.

She is cunning past man's thought.

Eno.

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love: We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears^{9 note}

are greater storms and tempests that almanacks can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Ant.

'Would I had never seen her!

Eno.

O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which not to have been blessed withal, would have discredited your travel.

Ant.

Fulvia is dead.

Eno.

Sir?

Ant.

Fulvia is dead.

Eno.

Fulvia?

Ant.

Dead.

Eno.

Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth: comforting therein^{1 note}

are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented: this grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat:—and, indeed, the tears live in an onion^{2 note}