Ant.
Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,
That were excusable, that and thousands more
Of semblable import, but he hath wag'd
New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his Will and read it
To publick 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;
^{9 note}
When the best hint was giv'n him, he not took't,
Or did it from his teeth.

Octa.
Oh, 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:
The good Gods will mock me presently,
When I shall pray, “Oh, bless my Lord and husband!”
Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud,
“Oh, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother,
Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway
'Twixt these extreams 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's; ^{1 note}

Octa.
Thanks to my Lord.
The Jove of Power make me, most weak, most weak,
Your reconciler! ^{2 note}

Ant.
When it appears to you where this begins,
Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults
Can never be so equal, that your love

Can equally move with them. Provide your Going;
Chuse your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to. [Exeunt. Enter Enobarbus and Eros.

Eno.
How now, friend Eros?

Eros.
There's strange news, come, Sir.

Eno.
What, man?

Eros.
Cæsar and Lepidus have made war upon Pompey.

Eno.
This is old; what is the success?

Eros.

Cæsar, having made use of him in the wars 'gainst Pompey, presently denied him ^{3 note}rivality, would not let him partake in the glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey. ^{4 note}Upon his own appeal, seizes him; so the poor Third is up, 'till death enlarge his confine.

Eno.

^{5 note}

Eros.
He's walking in the garden thus; and spurns
The rush that lies before him. Cries, “fool Lepidus!”
And threats the throat of that his Officer,
That murder'd Pompey.

Eno.
Our great Navy's rigg'd.

Eros.
For Italy and Cæsar. ^{6 note}More, Domitius.
My Lord desires you presently. My news
I might have told hereafter.

Eno.

'Twill be naught; but let it be. Bring me to Antony.

Eros.

Come, Sir.