Cleo.
Charmian.

Char.
Madam.

Cleo.
Ha, ha—give me to drink Mandragoras.

Char.
Why, madam?

Cleo.
That I might sleep out this great gap of time,
My Antony is away.

Char.
You think of him too much.

Cleo.
O 'tis treason.

Char.
Madam, I trust not so.

Cleo.
Thou eunuch, Mardian?

Mar.
What's your highness' pleasure?

Cleo.
Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure
In ought an eunuch has; 'tis well for thee,
That being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts
May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?

Mar.
Yes, gracious madam.

Cleo.
Indeed?

Mar.
Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing
But what indeed is honest to be done:
Yet have I fierce affections, and think

What Venus did with Mars.

Cleo.
Oh Charmian!
Where think'st thou he is now? stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?
Oh happy horse to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demy Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of man. He's speaking now,
Or murmuring, where's my serpent of old Nile,
For so he calls me; now I feed my self
With most delicious poison. Think on me,
That am with Phœbus' amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time. Broad-fronted Cæsar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow,
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life. Enter Alexas.

Alex.
Soveraign of Ægypt, hail.

Cleo.
How much art thou unlike Mark Antony?
Yet coming from him, that great med'cine hath
With his tinct gilded thee.
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

Alex.
Last thing he did, dear Queen,
He kist the last of many doubled kisses,
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

Cleo.
Mine ear must pluck it thence.

Alex.
Good friends, quoth he,
Say the firm Roman to great Ægypt sends
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
To mend the petty present, I will piece

Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the east,
Say thou, shall call her mistress. So he nodded,
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
Who neigh'd so high, that what I would have spoke,
Was beastly dumb by him.

Cleo.
What, was he sad or merry?

Alex.
Like to the time o'th' year, between th' extreams
Of hot and cold, he was not sad nor merry.

Cleo.
Oh well divided disposition;
Note him good Charmian, 'tis the man; but note him,
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his. He was not merry,
Which seem'd to tell them, his remembrance lay
In Ægypt with his joy; but between both.
Oh heav'nly mingle! be'st thou sad, or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes,
So do's it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?

Alex.
Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
Why do you send so thick?

Cleo.
Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony,
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.
Welcome my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Cæsar so?

Char.
Oh that brave Cæsar!

Cleo.
Be choak'd with such another emphasis,
Say the brave Antony.

Char.
The valiant Cæsar.

Cleo.
By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth,
If thou with Cæsar paragon again
My man of men.

Char.
By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.

Cleo.
My sallad days!
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood!
To say, as I said then. But come away,
Get me ink and paper,
He shall have every day several greetings, or I'll unpeople
Ægypt. [Exeunt.

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