Ant.
All is lost!
This foul Ægyptian hath betray'd me!
My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder
They cast their caps up, and carouse together
Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore! 'tis thou
Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly:
For when I am reveng'd upon my charm,

I have done all. Bid them all fly, be gone.
Oh sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:
Fortune and Antony part here, even here
Do we shake hands—all come to this!—the hearts
That pannell'd me at heels, to whom I gave
Their wishes, do dis-candy, melt their sweets
On blossoming Cæsar: and this pine is bark'd,
That over-topt them all. Betray'd I am.
Oh this false soul of Ægypt! this ^{a note}gay charm,
Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home:
Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,
Like a right gipsie, hath at fast and loose
Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.
What Eros, Eros! Enter Cleopatra.
Ah, thou spell! avant.

Cleo.
Why is my lord enrag'd against his love?

Ant.
Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,
And blemish Cæsar's triumph. Let him take thee,
And hoist thee up to the shouting Plebeians;
Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot
Of all thy sex. Most monster-like be shewn
For poor'st diminutives, for dolts; and let
Patient Octavia plough thy visage up
With her prepared nails. 'Tis well thou'rt gone, [Exit Cleopatra.
If it be well to live. But better 'twere
Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death
Might have prevented many. Eros, hoa!
The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me,
Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage:
Let me lodge Licas on the horns o'th' moon,
And with those hands that graspt the heaviest club,

Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die;
To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
Under his plot: she dies for't. Eros, hoa! [Exit. Re-enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian.

Cleo.
Help me, my women! oh he is more mad
Than Telamon for his shield, the boar of Thessaly
Was never so imbost.

Char.
To th' monument,
There lock your self, and send him word you're dead:
The soul and body rive not more in parting,
Than greatness going off.

Cleo.
To th' monument:
Mardian, go tell him I have slain my self,
Say, that the last I spoke was Antony,
And word it, pr'ythee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,
And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument. [Exeunt.

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