Cle.
Give me some musick; musick, moody food
Of us that trade in love.—No, let it be.
We'l to the river;—there I will betray

Tawny-finn'd fishes: as I draw them up,
I'll think them every one an Antony,
And say, “Ah! Ha! you're caught.”

Char.
'Twas merry, when
You wager'd on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.

Cle.
That time!—O times!—
I laugh'd him out of patience; and, that night,
I laugh'd him into patience; and, next morn,
Ere the ninth hour, I laugh'd him to his bed;—
Then put my ties and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword Phillippan.—O! from Italy;— Enter a Messenger.

Mess.
Madam, Madam,—

Cle.
Antony's dead?—If thou say so,
Villain, thou kill'st thy mistress:—but well, and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here,
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembl'd, kissing.

Mess.
First, Madam, he is well.

Cle.
Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark; we use
To say, the dead are well; if he be dead,
(And I perceive no goodness in thy face)
Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes,
Not like a formal man.

Mess.
Wil't please you hear me.

Cle.
I have a mind to spurn thee, 'ere thou speak'st:
Yet, if thou say, Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Cæsar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.

Mess.
Madam, he's well.

Cle.
Well said.

Mess.
And friends with Cæsar.

Cle.
Thou art an honest man.

Mess.
Cæsar and he, are greater friends than ever.

Cle.
Make thee a fortune from me.

Mess.
But yet, Madam,—

Cle.
I do not like, but yet; it does allay
The good precedence. 'Pr'ythee, pr'ythee friend,
Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear,
The good and bad together: He's friends with Cæsar;
In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free.

Mess.
Free, Madam? No; I made no such report:
He's—married to Octavia.

Cle.
The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

Mess.
Good Madam, have patience!

Cle.
What say you? hence!

Mess.
Gracious Madam,
I, that do bring the news, made not the match.

Cle.
Say, 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud:
And I will boot thee with what gift beside,
Thy modesty can beg.—Come hither, Sir.

Mess.
I have done my duty.

Cle.
Is he married?
I cannot hate thee worse than now I do,
If thou again say, yes.

Mess.
Too sure he is; and, 'ere I quitted Rome,
He and Octavia had embark'd for Athens. [Exit Messenger.

Char.
Good, your Highness, patience.

Cle.
Lead me hence,
I faint: O, Iras, Charmion!—'Tis no matter—
Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years,

Her Inclination; let him not leave out
The colour of her hair: bring me word quickly. [Exit Alexas.
Let him for ever go! Pity me, Charmion,
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section