Ven.
Ne'er, till this hour, fought I against my will
For Antony. Plague on his leave-taking!
I thought how her white arms would fold him in,
And mar my wholesome counsels. One hope still
Remains to part him from this—(shouts)—So! he comes. Enter Antony, with his Forces.

Ant.
This day is ours;—Bravely thou fought'st, Ventidius;
We have beat him to his camp.

Ven.
True—against odds;
But still you draw supplies from one poor town,
And all Ægyptians;—Cæsar has the world
All at his beck; Nations come pouring in,
To fill the gaps he makes.

Ant.
Nay, nay, Ventidius,
No more on this theme, now.—Run one before,
To tell the Queen of our approach.—To morrow,
Before the sun shall see us, we'll spill the blood
That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all;
You have fought
Not as you serv'd the cause, but as t'had been
Each man's like mine; Oh! you have shewn all Hectors.
Enter the city; clip your wives, your friends;
Tell them your feats; whilst they, with joyful tears,
Wash the concealment from your wounds, and kiss
The honour'd gashes whole. Enter Cleopatra, attended.
O, thou day o'the world!
Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants in triumph.

Cle.
O, infinite virtue! com'st thou smiling from
The world's great snare, uncaught?

Ant.
My nightingale,
We have beat them to their beds. Behold this man;
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.
Kiss it, my warrior; he hath fought to-day,
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had
Destroy'd in such a shape.

Cle
I'll give thee, friend.
An armour all of gold; it was a king's.

Ant.
He has deserv'd it, were it carbuncl'd

Like holy Phœbus' car.

Ven.
I'll none on't;—no;
Not all the diamonds of the East can bribe
Ventidius from his faith.

Ant.
Give me thy hand; (to Cleopatra.)
Through Alexandria make a jovial march;
Bear our hack'd targets like the men that own them.
Had our great palace the capacity,
To camp this host, we all would drink carouses
To next day's fate, together. Trumpeters,
With brazen din rejoice the city's ear:
Make mingle with our rattling tambourines,
That Heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,
Applauding our approach. [Exeunt all but Antony and Ventidius.

Ven. (Pulling Antony by the sleeve.)
Emperor!

Ant.
'Tis the old argument: I pr'ythee spare me.

Ven
But this one hearing, Emperor.

Ant
Let go
My robe, or by my sather, Hercules,—

Ven.
By Hercules's father, that's yet greater,
I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

Ant.
Thou see'st we are observ'd; attend me here,
And I'll return. [Exit.

Ven.
I'm waning in his favour, yet I love him;
I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;
And, sure the gods, like me, are fond of him:
His virtues lie so mingled with his faults,
As would confound their choice to punish one,
And not reward the other. Enter Antony.

Ant.
We can conquer.
They look on us at distance, and, like ours,
'Scap'd from the lion's paws, they bay far off;
They lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.

Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,
Lie breathless on the plain.

Ven.
'Tis well: and he,
Who lost 'em, could have spar'd ten thousand more.
Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain
An easier peace, while Cæsar doubts the chance
Of arms,—

Ant.
O, think not on't, Ventidius;
The boy pursues my ruin; he'll no peace.
O, he's the coolest murderer; so stanch,
He kills, and keeps his temper.

Ven
Have you no friend
In all his army, who has power to move him?
Mæcenas or Agrippa might do much.

Ant.
They're both too deep in Cæsar's interests.
We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish.

Ven.
Fain I would find some other—

Ant.
Thank thy love;
But wherefore drive me from myself, to search
For foreign aids? to hunt my memory
To find a friend? The wretched have no friends:
Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome;
I scarce need tell his name:—'twas Dolabella.

Ven.
He's now in Cæsar's camp.

Ant.
No matter where,
Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly
That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight,
Because I fear'd he lov'd her. When he departed
He took no leave; and that confirm'd my thoughts.

Ven.
It argues that he lov'd you more than her;
Else he had staid; but he perceiv'd you jealous.
And would not grieve his friend. I know he loves you.

Ant.
I should have seen him then ere now.

Ven.
Perhaps,
He has thus long been lab'ring for your peace.

Ant.
Would he were here!

Ven.
Would you believe he lov'd you?
I read your answer in your eyes, you would.
Not to conceal it longer, he has sent
A messenger from Cæsar's camp, with letters.

Ant.
Let him appear.

Ven.
I'll bring him instantly. [Exit Ventidius; and Re-enters immediately, with Dolabella.

Ant.
'Tis he himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him.
Art thou return'd at last, my better half?
Come, give me all myself. Oh, Dolabella!
Thou hast beheld me other than I am.
Hast thou not seen my morning chambers fill'd
With scepter'd slaves, who waited to salute me?
With eastearn monarchs, who forgot the sun,
To worship my uprising?

Dol.
Slaves to your fortune.

Ant.
Fortune is Cæsar's now, and what am I?

Ven.
What you have made yourself. I will not flatter.

Ant.
Is this friendly done?

Dol.
Yes, when his end is so; I must join with him;
Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide:
Why am I else your friend?

Ant.
Take heed, young man,
How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes,
And thou too hast a soul. Can'st thou remember
When, swell'd with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,
As accessary to thy brother's death?

Dol.
Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day,
And still the blush hangs here.

Ant.
To clear herself
For sending him no aid, she came from Ægypt.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burnt ont he water: the stern was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which, to the tune of flutes kept time, and made
The water, which they beat, to follow faster
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description:—she did lye
In her pavillion,
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The fancy out work nature:—On each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.

Dol.
No more—I will not hear it.

Ant.
'Twas Heav'n, or somewhat more;
For she so charm'd all hearts, that gazing crowds
Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath
To give their welcome voice.
Then Dolabella, where was then thy soul?
Was not thy fury quite disarm'd with wonder?
Did'st thou not shrink behind me from those eyes
And whisper in my ear, “Oh! tell her not
That I accus'd her of my brother's death.”

Dol.
And should my weakness be a plea for yours?
But yet the loss was private that I made:
'I was but myself I lost: I lost no legions:
I had no world to lose, or people's love.

Ant.
This from a friend?

Ven.
Yes, Emperor, a true one.

Dol.
A friend so tender, that each word I speak
Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear.
O, judge me not less kind because I chide:
To Cæsar I excuse you.

Ant.
O ye gods!
Have I then liv'd to be excus'd to Cæsar!

Dol
As to your equal.

Ant.
Well, he's but my equal:
While I wear this he never shall be more.

Dol.
I bring conditions from him.

Ant
Are they noble?
Methinks thou should'st not bring 'em else: granting this,
What pow'r was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper
To honourable terms?
It was my Dolabella, or some god.

Dol.
Nor I; nor yet Mæcenas, nor Agrippa.
They were your enemies; and I, a friend
Too weak alone: yet 'twas a Roman deed.

Ant.
'Twas like a Roman done: Shew me that person,
Who has preserv'd my life, my love, my honour;
Bring us but face to face.

Ven.
That task is mine;
And, Heav'n, thou know'st how pleasing! [Exit Ventidius.

Dol.
You'll remember
To whom you stand oblig'd?

Ant.
When I forget it,
Be thou unkind; and that's my greatest curse.
My queen shall give thanks too.

Dol.
I fear she will not.

Ant.
She shall, she shall: the Queen, my Dolabella!
Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever?

Dol.
I would not see her lost.

Ant.
When I forsake her,
Leave me, my better stars; for she has truth
Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her
At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me;
But she resisted all: and yet thou chid'st me
For loving her too well. Could I do so?

Dol.
Yes: there's my reason.

Re-enter Ventidius with Octavia.

Ant.
Where? Octavia there! (Starting back.)

Ven.
What, is she poison to you? A disease?
Look on her, view her well.

Dol.
For shame, my Lord! if not for love, receive her
With kinder eyes. If you confess a man,
Meet her, embrace her, bid her welcome to you.
Your arms should open, ev'n without your knowledge,
To clasp her in; your feet should turn to wings,
To bear you to her,

Ant
I stood amaz'd to think how she came hither.

Ven
I sent to her; I brought her in, unknown
To Cleopatra's guards.

Dol.
Yet, are you cold?

Oct.
Thus long I have attened fo r my welcome;
Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.
Who am I?

Ant
Cæsar's sister.

Oct.
That's unkind!
Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,
Know, I had still remain'd in Cæsar's camp;
But your Octavia, your much injur'd wife,
Tho' banish'd from your bed, driv'n from your house,
In spite of Cæsar's sister, still is yours.
Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,
And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;
But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride.
I come to claim you as my own; to shew
My duty first, to ask, nay beg, your kindness:
Your hand, my Lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. (Taking his Hand.)

Ven.
Do, take it, thou deserv'st it.

Ant.
I fear, Octavia, you have begg'd my life.

Oct.
Begg'd it, my Lord?

Ant.
Yes, begg'd it, my Ambassadress.
Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,
Rise up, and be a king, shall I fall down,
And cry, forgive me, Cæsar?—no, that word
Would choak me up, and die upon my tongue.

Dol.
You shall not need it.

Ant.
I will not need it. Come, you've all betray'd me;
My friend, too! to receive some vile conditions,
My wife has bought me, with her pray'rs and tears;
And now I must become her branded slave.
In ev'ry peevish mood she will upbraid
The life she gave.

Oct.
My hard fortune
Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.
But the conditions I have brought are such
You need not blush to take; I love your honour,
Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said
Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.
Sir, you are free; free ev'n from her you loath;
For, tho' my brother bargains for your love,
Makes me the price and cement of your peace,
I have a soul like yours: I cannot take
Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.
I'll tell my brother we are reconcil'd;
He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march
To rule the East; I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where, I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble.

Ven.
Was ever such a strife of sullen honour?
Both scorn to be oblig'd.

Dol.
O, she has touch'd him in the tend'rest part.
See how he reddens with despite, and shame,
To be out-done in generosity!

Ven.
See how he winks! how he dries up a tear,
That fain would fall!

Ant.
Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise
The greatness of your soul;
But cannot yield to what you have propos'd;
For I can ne'er be conquer'd but by love;
But you do all for duty. You would free me;
And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so?

Oct.
It was, my Lord.

Ant.
Then I must be oblig'd
To one who loves me not; who, to herself,
May call me thankless, and ungrateful man;
I'll not endure it; no.

Ven.
I'm glad it pinches there.

Oct.
Would you exult o'er poor Octavia's virtue?
That pride was all I had to bear me up;
That you might think you ow'd me for your life,
And ow'd it to my duty, not my love.
I have been injur'd, and my haughty soul
Could brook but ill the man that slights my bed.

Ant.
Therefore you love me not?

Oct.
Therefore, my Lord,
I should not love you.

Ant.
Therefore you would leave me?

Oct.
And therefore I should leave you,—if I could.

Ant.
I am vanquish'd. Take me, Octavia;— [Embracing her.
I've been a thriftless debtor to your love,
But all shall be amended.

Oct.
O, blest hour!

Dol.
Happy change!

Ven.
My joy stops at my tongue;
But it has found two channels here, for one,
And bubbles out above.

Ant. [To Octavia.]
This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt;
Ev'n to thy brother's camp.

Oct.
All there are your's. Enter Alexas, hastily.

Alex.
The Queen, my mistress, Sir, and yours—

Ant.
'Tis past!
Octavia, you shall stay this night; to-morrow,
Cæsar and we are one. [Exit, leading Octavia; Dolabella follows.

Ven.
There's news for you; run, my officious pandar;
Be sure to be the first; haste forward: go—
Haste, my dear go-between!—haste! [Exeunt.

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