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 scantly 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 o'er-look'd,
Or did it from his Teeth.

Oct.
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,
When I shall praying, 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 my self; better I were not yours
Than yours so branchless. But as you requested,
Your self shall go between's, the mean time, Lady,
I'll raise the preparation of a War
Shall stain your Brother, make your soonest haste
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 sodder up the Rift.

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 rivality, would not let him partake of the Glory of the Action, and not resting here, accuses him of Letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey. Upon his own appeal seizes him, so the poor Third is up, 'till death enlarge his Confine.

Eno.

Then would thou hadst a pair of Chaps no more, and throw between them all the food thou hast, they'll grind the other. Where's Antony?

Eros.
He's walking in the Garden thus; and spurns
The Rush that lyes before him. Crys, Fool Lepidus,
And threats the Throat of that his Officer,
That murdred Pompey.

Eno.
Our great Navy's rigg'd.

Eros.
For Italy and Cæsar; 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. [Exeunt.

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