Ant.
Gods! how this foul Ægyptian hath betray'd me!
Her fleet and Cæsar's mingle in the port,
And there, like long-lost friends, carouse together.
O, sun! thy up-rise shall I see no more;
Fortune and Antony part here, even here!—
All come to this! to this!

Ven.
This Ægypt is
One universal traitor; and their queen
The spirit, and the extract, of 'em all.

Ant.
Is there yet left a possibility?—
The least unmortgaged hope?—for, if there be,
Methinks I should not fall beneath the fate
Of such a boy as Cæsar.

Ven.
There are, yet,
(The remnant now fled with us from the hills)
Three legions left. If Death be your design,
As I must wish it now, these are sufficient
To make a heap about us of dead foes,
An honest pile for burial.

Ant.
They're enough.

Ven.
Now you shall see I love you:—not a word
Of chiding more: By my few hours of life!
I am so pleas'd with this brave Roman fate,
That I would not be Cæsar to outlive you.

Ant.
Who knows but yet we may— Enter Alexas.
How now, Alexas?

Ven.
He comes from Cleopatra;—from your ruin;
And looks a lie before he utters it.
Hence, villain, hence!

Ant.
Away from me for ever!
No syllable to justify thy queen:
Let her begone; the blot of my renown,
And bane of all my hopes! Let her be driven,
As far as man can think, from human commerce;
She'll poison to the center!

Alex.
Sir, be satisfied,
She'll ne'er molest you more;—she could not bear
To be accus'd by you; but shut herself
Within her monument: Her silent tears
Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting:
At last, with dying looks—

Ant.
My heart forebodes!—

Ven.
All for the best: Go on.

Alex.
She snatch'd her poignard,
And, 'ere we could prevent the fatal blow,
Plung'd it within her breast. Go, bear my Lord,
(Turning to me, she said,) my last farewel;
And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith:—
More she was saying, but death rush'd betwixt:—
She half pronounc'd your name, with her last breath,
And half was lost with it.

Ant.
And art thou dead?
Dead, Cleopatra! Oh, then what am I?
The murderer of this truth, this innocence!
Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid
As can express my guilt! Oh, my poor love!

Ven.
Is't come to this? the gods have been too gracious;
And thus you thank 'em for't.

Ant. (To Alexas.)
Why stay'st thou here?
Is it for thee to spy upon my soul,
And see its inward mourning? get thee hence:—
Thou art not worthy to behold what, now,

Becomes a Roman Emperor to perform. [Exit Alexas.
I will not fight; There's no more work for war;
The business of my angry hours is done.

Ven.
Cæsar is at your gate.

Ant.
Why, let him enter;
He's welcome, now.

Ven.
What lethargy has crept into your soul?

Ant.
'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire
To free myself from bondage.

Ven.
Do it bravely.

Ant.
I will; but not by fighting. O, Ventidius!
What should I fight for now? My Cleopatra,
Now thou art dead, let Cæsar take the world,—
An empty circle, since the jewel's gone
Which made it worth my strife.

Ven.
Wou'd you be taken?

Ant.
Yes, I wou'd be taken;
But, as a Roman ought,—dead, my Ventidius.

Ven.
As I shall not outlive you, I could wish
We threw life from us with a better grace;
That, like two lions, taken in the toils,
We might, at least thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters that inclose us.

Ant.
I have thought on't;
Ventidius, you must live.

Ven.
I must not, Sir.

Ant.
Wilt thou not live to speak some good of me?
To stand by my fair fame, and guard th' approaches
From the ill tongues of men.

Ven.
Who shall guard mine,
For living after you?

Ant.
Say, I command it.

Ven.
If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves,
And need no living witness.

Ant.
Thou hast lov'd me,
And fain I wou'd reward thee; I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death
To make thee friends with Cæsar.

Ven.
Did I think
You wou'd have us'd me thus? that I should die
With a hard thought of you!

Ant.
Forgive me, Roman:
Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death,
My reason bears no rule upon my tongue.
I have thought better; do not twice deny me.

Ven.
By Heav'n, I will not,
So it be not t' outlive you.

Ant
Kill me first.

Ven.
Give me your hand.
We shall soon meet again. Now, farewel, Emperor— (Embraces.)
Methinks that word's too cold to be my last:
Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewel, Friend!
And, yet, I cannot look on you, and kill you:
'Pray, turn your face.

Ant.
I do: strike home, be sure.

Ven.
Home as my sword will reach. (Kills himself.)

Ant.
O, thou mistak'st:
Thou robb'st me of my death.

Ven.
Think 'tis the first time that I e'er deceiv'd you,
If that may plead my pardon. And, you gods,
Forgive me, oh, forgive! for I die perjur'd,
Rather than kill my friend. (Dies.)

Ant.
Farewel! Ever my leader, ev'n in death!
My queen and thou have got the start of me,
And I'm the lag of honour. (Falls on his Sword.) Ah! not dead!

I've mist my heart—O, unperforming hand!
Thou never cou'd'st have err'd in a worse time. [Noise without.
Hark! I hear footsteps.—Oh, dispatch, dispatch me! Enter Philo, with Soldiers.

Philo.
Whence are those groans! Ha,—'tis our General!

Ant.
I've done my work ill, friends; make, make an end
Of what I have begun.

Philo.
Not I!—nor any one. Enter Diomedes.

Dio.
Where is Mark Antony?

Philo. (Mournfully.)
Here, Diomed!

Dio.
Oh, heavy sight! [Sees Antony.

Ant.
Diomed, is it not?

Dio.
I come, Sir, from the Queen; from Cleopatra.

Ant.
When did she send?

Dio.
Now, my Lord.

Ant.
Now! where is she?

Dio.
Lock'd in her monument:—for when she heard
You did suspect she had made terms with Cæsar,
(Which never will be found) and that your rage
Could not be sooth'd, she yielded to Alexas
Her hasty leave to tell you she was dead,
But, fearing since, how it might work, hath sent
Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,
I dread, too late!

Ant.
Too late, good Diomed: Call my guard, I pr'ythee.

Dio.
What, ho! the Emperor's guard!—Come, your Lord calls.

Enter a Guard.

Ant.
Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides.
'Tis the last service that I shall command you.

A Soldier.
Woe, woe are we, you may not live to wear
All your true followers out!

Ant.
Nay, my good fellows! please not our hard fate
To grace it with your sorrows. Yonder lies,
In death, the brave Ventidius:—Bear his corse
To burial;—and respect it as my own.—
And—life flows fast—Take me to Cleopatra! [Soldiers throng round, and support him.
I've led you oft;—lead me, now, gallant friends,
And have my thanks for all! [Exit Mark Antony, supported by his Guard—other Soldiers join their shields, on which they place the corse of Ventidius, and bear it away.

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