Antony.
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,—
That were excusable, that, and thousands more
Of semblable import,—but he hath wag'd
New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it
To publick ear:
Spoke scantly of me: when perforce he could not
But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly
He vented them; most narrow measure lent me:
When the best hint was given him, he not took't^{3 note},
Or did it from his teeth^{4 note}

Oct.
O my good lord,
Believe not all; or, if you must believe,
Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
If this division chance, ne'er stood between,
Praying for both parts: the^{5 note}

Ant.
Gentle Octavia,
Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks
Best to preserve it: If I lose mine honour,

I lose myself: better I were not yours,
Than yours so branchless^{7 note}. But, as you requested,
Yourself shall go between us: The mean time, lady,
I'll raise the preparation of a war
Shall stain your brother^{8 note}

Oct.
Thanks to my lord.
The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,
Your reconciler^{9 note}! Wars 'twixt you twain would be^{1 note}
As if the world should cleave, and that slain men
Should solder up the rift.

Ant.
When it appears to you where this begins,
Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults
Can never be so equal, that your love
Can equally move with them. Provide your going;
Choose your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to. [Exeunt.

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