Ant.
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,
That were excusable; that, and thousands more
Of semblable import;—but since we married,
And have dwelt here, in Athens, he hath waged
New wars 'gainst Pompey, made his will, and read it
To public ear;
Spoke scantily 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,
Or did it from his teeth.

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:—Husband win, win brother,
Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway
'Twixt these extremes at all.

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. But, as you requested,
Yourself shall go between us. Meantime, Lady,

I'll raise the preparation of a war
Shall stain your brother; speed you then to Rome,—
So your desires are yours.

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

Ant.
Well, well, the ship awaits you in the harbour:
Choose your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to.

Oct.
Oh, my Lord—farewel!

Ant.
The April's in thy eyes;
Thy tongue will not obey thy heart, nor will
Thy heart inform thy tongue: the swan's down feather
Thus stands upon the swell, at full of tide,
And neither way inclines.—Come on, Octavia;
I'll lead thee to the shore. [Exeunt.

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