Cle.
Athens may well be proud! it circles, now,
Within its walls, Bellona's paragon;
The man of men;—ay me! the married man.
Would that Mark Antony could see me thus!
Sure he would sigh, for he is noble natur'd,
And bears a tender heart. I know him well—
Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once,
But, now, 'tis past

Iras.
Let it be past with you—
Forget him, Madam.

Cle.
Never, never, Iras.
Faithless, ungrateful, cruel though he be,
I still must love him. Enter Charmion.
Now, what news, my Charmion?

Char
The man, whom you dispatch'd in trust, to Athens,
Newly return'd, now waits upon your will.

Cle. (Starting up.)
Will Antony be kind?—or, quite forsake me?
Is't life or death? for when he gave his answer,
Fate took the word, and then I died or lived.

Char.
Madam, the Messenger. Enter Messenger.

Cle.
Say,—had'st thou audience
Of great Mark Antony?

Mess.
I found him, Madam,
Encompass'd by a throng that shouted round him:—
When he beheld me struggling through the crowd,
He blush'd, and bade make way.

Cle.
There's comfort yet! (Apart from the Messenger.
Proceed.

Mess.
I told my message,
Just as you gave it, broken and dishearted;
Told him, you only begg'd a last farewel;—
Presented next your letter; which he read,
Then fetch'd an inward groan, and only sigh'd,
As if his heart was breaking. Thus we parted.

Cle. (Apart)
That inward groan gives hopes he may be here,
If but to say farewel. Saw'st thou Octavia?

Mess.
Madam, I did; for, as I reach'd the land,

I view'd her standing at her vessel's prow,
To sail for Italy: our barks approach'd
Almost to contact.

Cle.
Italy! why thither?

Mess.
To reconcile, at Rome, (so rumour spake)
Divisions which, of late, forebode a war
Between her Lord and Cæsar.

Cle.
Blest forebodings!
Long may divisions last, that can divide
That mate, ill-mated, from Mark Antony. (apart.)
Is she as tall as I?

Mess.
She is not, Madam.

Cle.
Dwarfish! he ne'er will like her long.

Char.
O, Isis!
Like her? it is impossible.

Cle.
I think so.
What majesty is in her air? Remember,
If e'er thou look'd'st on majesty.

Mess.
She stoops.
She shews a body, rather than a life:
A statue, than a breather.

Cle.
Is this certain?

Mess.
Or I have no observance.

Cle
There's nothing in her yet:
The fellow has good judgment.

Char.
Excellent.

Cle.
Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long, or round?

Mess.
Round, even to faultiness.

Cle.
For the most part too,
They are foolish that are so. Her hair, what colour?

Mess.
Brown, Madam; and her forehead is as low
As she would wish it.

Cle.
There is gold for thee. [Exit Messenger.

Char.
A proper man.

Cle.
Indeed, he is so; why, methinks, by him,
This creature's no such thing.

Char.
O, nothing, Madam.

Cle.
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Char.
Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
And serving you so long!

Cle.
I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmion:
But, 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
Where I will write: All may be well enough.

Char.
I warrant you, Madam. [Grand flourish. [Shouting, without.]
Antony! Antony! Enter Antony, and Enobarbus.

Cle.
Oh, this I prophecied! (Rushes forward to meet Antony.)
My love! my Lord!
So quick to follow thus my messenger!—

Ant.
Well, Madam, we are met. (coldly.)

Cle.
Is this a meeting?
Then, meet we but to part?

Ant.
We must;—for ever.

Cle.
Who says we must?

Ant.
Our own hard fates.

Cle.
We make those fates ourselves.

Ant.
Yes, we have made 'em; we have lov'd each other
Into our mutual ruin.

Cle.
The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes;
I have no friends in Heav'n, and all the world
Is arm'd against my love: Ev'n you yourself
Join with the rest; you, you are arm'd against me.

Ant.
I will be justify'd in all I do,

To late posterity; and therefore hear me.
If I mix a lie
With any truth, reproach me freely with it;
Else favour me with silence.

Cle.
You command me,
And I am dumb.

Eno.
I like this well. He shows authority.

Ant.
That I derive my ruin
From you alone,—

Cle.
O, Heav'ns! I ruin you!

Ant.
You promis'd me your silence, and you break it,
Ere I have scarce begun.

Cle
Well, I obey you.

Ant.
When I beheld you first, it was in Ægypt.
Ere Cæsar saw your eyes: You gave me love,
And were too young to know it; that I settled
Your father on his throne, was for your sake;
I left th' acknowledgement for time to ripen:
Cæsar stept in, and with a greedy hand
Pluck'd the green fruit, ere the first blush of red,
Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my Lord,
And was, beside, too great for me to rival.
When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia,
An enemy to Rome, I pardon'd you.

Cle.
I clear'd myself.

Ant.
Again you break your promise.
I lov'd you still, and took your weak excuses:
Took you into my bosom, stain'd by Cæsar,
And not half mine. I went to Ægypt with you,
And hid me from the bus'ness of the world;
Shut out enquiring nations from my sight,
To give whole years to you.

Eno.
'Tis all too true.

Ant.
Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,
As she, indeed, had reason; rais'd a war
To call me back.—While in your arms I lay,

The world fell mould'ring from my hands each hour,
And left me scarce a grasp.

Cle
Yet may I speak?

Ant.
If I have urg'd a falsehood, yes; else not.—
Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died;
(Pardon, ye gods! with my unkindness died,)
To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,
This Cæsar's sister; in her pride of youth,
And slow'r of beauty, did I wed that lady;
Whom, blushing, I must praise, for I have left her.
You call'd; my love has now obey'd the summons,
But, if I stay, 'twill raise the Roman arms.
If you have ought to answer,
Now speak—you have free leave.

Eno.
Now lay a sigh i' th' way, to stop his passage
Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions;
'Tis like they shall be sold.

Cle.
How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,
Already have condemn'd me? Shall I bring
The love you bore me for my advocate?
That, now, is turn'd against me; that destroys me;
For, love once past is, at the best, forgotten;
But oft'ner sours to hate: 'twill please my Lord
To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty.
Here then I end. Though I deserve this usage,
Was it like you to give it?

Ant.
O, you wrong me,
To think I sought this parting, or desir'd
T' accuse you more than what will clear myself,
And justify this breach. We're both unhappy.
If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us.
Speak, would you have me perish by my stay?

Cle.
If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go;
If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish,

'Tis a hard word, but stay.
Now, judge my love by this. (Giving Antony a writing.)
Could I have borne
A life, or death, a happiness, or woe,
From your's divided, this had giv'n me means.

Ant.
By Hercules, the writing of Octavius!
I know it well.
See, Enobarbus! here he offers Ægypt,
And joins all Syria to it as a present;
So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes,
And join her arms with his.

Cle.
And yet you leave me!
You leave me, Antony, and yet I love you,
Indeed I do; I have refus'd a kingdom,
That's a trifle,
For I would part with life, with any thing,
But only you. O, let me die with you!
Is that a hard request?

Ant.
Next living with you
'Tis all that Heav'n can give.

Char. (Aside.)
He melts! we conquer!

Cle.
No, you shall go. Your int'rest calls you hence;
Yes, your dear int'rest pulls too strong for these
Weak arms to hold you here. (Takes his hand.)
Go; leave me, soldier,
(For you're no more a lover) leave me dying;
Push me, all pale, and panting, from your bosom;
And, when your march begins, let one run after,
Breathless almost for joy, and cry, she's dead:
The soldiers shout: you, then, perhaps, may sigh,
And muster all your Roman gravity;
Octavia chides; and straight your brow clears up,
As I had never been.

Ant.
Dead! rather let me perish:
My life, my soul, my all! (Embraces her.)

Eno.
And what's this toy,
In balance with your fortune, honour, fame!—

Ant.
What, Enobarbus? it outweighs 'em all.
Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,
And ask forgiveness of wrong'd innocence.

Eno.
I'll rather die, than take it.—Will you go?

Ant.
Go! whither? Go from all that's excellent!
Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,
That I should go from her, who sets my love
Above the price of kingdoms. Give, you gods!
Give to your boy, your Cæsar,
This rattle of a globe, to play withal,
This gew-gaw world, and put him cheaply off;
I'll not be pleas'd with less than Cleopatra.

Cle.
She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy
That I shall do some wild extravagance
And cause the plodders of our foolish world,
Who know not tenderness, to think me mad. (March.) [Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra.

Eno.
O women! women! women! all the gods
Have not such pow'r of doing good to man,
As you, of doing harm! [Exit.

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