Cleo.
O Charmian, I will never go from hence.

Char.
Be comforted, dear madam.

Cleo.
No, I will not:
All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great Enter Diomedes.
As that which makes it.—How now? is he dead?

Dio.
His death's upon him, but not dead^{9 note}
.
Look out o' the other side your monument,
His guard have brought him thither. Enter Antony, borne by the Guard.

Cleo.
O sun,
Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in!—darkling^{1 note}

stand

The varying shore o' th' world^{2 note}

Ant.
Peace:
Not Cæsar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,
But Antony's hath triumphed on itself.

Cleo.
So it should be, that none but Antony
Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so!

Ant.
I am dying, Egypt, dying^{4 note}
; only

I here impórtune death^{5 note} a while, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.—

Cleo.
I dare not, dear,
(Dear my lord, pardon,) I dare not,
Lest I be taken^{6 note}

Edge, sting, or operation^{9 note}

Ant.
O, quick, or I am gone.

Cleo.
Here's sport, indeed^{2 note}

Our strength is all gone into heaviness^{3 note},
That makes the weight: Had I great Juno's power,
The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,
And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little,—
Wishers were ever fools;—O, come, come, come; [They draw Antony up.
And welcome, welcome! die, where thou hast liv'd^{4 note}:
Quicken with kissing^{5 note}

All.
A heavy sight!

Ant.
I am dying, Egypt, dying:
Give me some wine^{6 note}, and let me speak a little.

Cleo.
No, let me speak; and let me rail so high,
That the false housewife Fortune^{7 note}

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;
None about Cæsar.

Ant.
The miserable change^{8 note} now at my end,
Lament nor sorrow at: but please your thoughts,
In feeding them with those my former fortunes
Wherein I liv'd: the greatest prince o' the world,
The noblest: and do now not basely die,
Nor cowardly; put off my helmet to
My countryman, a Roman, by a Roman
Valiantly vanquish'd. Now, my spirit is going;
I can no more. [Dies.

Cleo.
Noblest of men, woo't die?
Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide
In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a stye?—O, see, my women,
The crown o' the earth doth melt:—My lord!—
O, wither'd is the garland of the war,
The soldier's pole^{9 note}

Are level now with men: the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon^{1 note}






. [She faints.

Char.
O, quietness, lady!

Iras.
She is dead too, our sovereign.

Char.
Lady,—

Iras.
Madam,—

Char.
O madam, madam, madam!

Iras.
Royal Egypt!
Empress!

Char.
Peace, peace, Iras.

Cleo.
No more, but e'en a woman^{2 note}

By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest chares^{3 note}

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