Cæs.
He calls me Boy, and chides as he had power
To beat me out of Ægypt. My Messenger
He hath whipt with Rods, dares me to Personal Combat,
Cæsar to Antony. Let the old Ruffian know,
I have many other ways to die: mean time
Laugh at this Challenge.

Mec.
Cæsar must think,
When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted
Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
Make boot of his distraction: Never anger
Made good guard for it self.

Cæs.
Let our best Heads know,
That to morrow, the last of many Battels
We mean to fight. Within our Files there are,
Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late,
Enough to fetch him in. See it done,
And feast the Army, we have store to do't,
And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony! [Exeunt.

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