Ant.
Favours! by Jove, that thunders.— [Seeing Thyreus kiss her hand.
What art thou, fellow?

Thyr.
One that but performs
The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest
To have command obey'd.

Eno.
You will be whipp'd.

Ant.
Approach there—ah, you kite! now, Gods and Devils!
Authority melts from me of late.—When I cry'd, hoa!
^{6 note}Like boys unto a muss, Kings would start forth,
And cry, your will? have you no ears?
I'm Antony yet. Take hence this Jack, and whip him. Enter Servants.

Eno.
'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp,
Than with an old one dying.

Ant.
Moon and stars!—
Whip him:—Were't twenty of the greatest Tributaries
That do acknowledge Cæsar, should I find them
So saucy with the hand of She here, (what's her name,
Since she was Cleopatra?)—whip him, fellows—
Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face,
And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.

Thyr.
Mark Antony—

Ant.
Tug him away; being whipp'd,
Bring him again: this Jack of Cæsar's shall
Bear us an errand to him. [Exeunt with Thyreus.
You were half blasted, ere I knew you: ha!
Have I my pillow left unprest in Rome,

Forborn the getting of a lawful race,
And by a jem of women, to be abus'd
By one that looks on feeders?

Cleo.
Good my Lord,—

Ant.
You have been a boggler ever.
But when we in our viciousness grow hard,
(Oh misery on't!) the wise Gods seal our eyes:
In our own filth drop our clear judgments; make us
Adore our errors, laugh at's while we strut
To our confusion.

Cleo.
Oh, is't come to this?

Ant.
I found you as a morsel, cold upon
Dead Cæsar's trencher: nay, you were a fragment
Of Cneius Pompey's; besides what hotter hours,
Unregistred in vulgar fame, you have
Luxuriously pickt out. For, I am sure,
Though you can guess what temperance should be,
You know not what it is.

Cleo.
Wherefore is this?

Ant.
To let a fellow that will take rewards,
And say, God quit you, be familiar with
My play-fellow, your hand; this kingly seal,
And plighter of high hearts!—O that I were
Upon the hill of Basan, to out-roar
The horned herd, for I have savage cause!
And to proclaim it civilly, were like
A halter'd neck, which does the hangman thank
For being yare about him. Is he whipp'd? Re-enter a Servant, with Thyreus.

Ser.
Soundly my lord.

Ant.
Cry'd he? and begg'd a' pardon?

Ser.
He did ask favour.

Ant.
If that thy father live, let him repent
Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry
To follow Cæsar in his triumph, since
Thou hast been whipp'd for following him. Henceforth,

The white hand of a lady feaver thee,
Shake to look on't.—Go, get thee back to Cæsar,
Tell him thy entertainment: look, thou say,
He makes me angry with him: For he seems
Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,
Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry;
And, at this time, most easie 'tis to do't:
When my good stars, that were my former guides,
Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires
Into the abysm of hell. If he mislike
My speech, and what is done, tell him, he has
Hipparchus my enfranchis'd bondman, whom
He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,
As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou:—
Hence with thy stripes, be gone. [Exit Thyreus.

Cleo.
Have you done yet?

Ant.
Alack, our terrene moon is now eclips'd,
And it portends alone the fall of Antony.

Cleo.
I must stay his time.—

Ant.
To flatter Cæsar, would you mingle eyes
With one that tyes his points?

Cleo.
Not know me yet?

Ant.
Cold-hearted toward me!

Cleo.
Ah, dear, if I be so,
From my cold heart let heaven ingender hail,
And poison't in the source, and the first stone
Drop in my neck; as it determines, so
Dissolve my life! the next Cæsario smite!
'Till by degrees the memory of my womb,
Together with my brave Ægyptians all,
By the (a) ^note discandying of this pelletted storm,
Lie graveless; 'till the flies and gnats of Nile
Have buried them for prey!

Ant.
I'm satisfied:
Cæsar sets down in Alexandria, where

I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
Hath nobly held; our sever'd navy too
Have knit again, and float, threatning most sea-like.
Where hast thou been, my heart? dost thou hear, lady?
If from the field I should return once more
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;
I and my sword will earn my chronicle;
There's hope in't yet.

Cleo.
That's my brave lord.

Ant.
I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd,
And fight maliciously: for when my hours
^{7 note}Were nice and lucky, men did ransome lives
Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth,
And send to darkness all that stop me. Come,
Let's have one other gaudy night: call to me
All my sad captains, fill our bowls; once more
Let's mock the midnight bell.

Cleo.
It is my birth-day;
I had thought, t'have held it poor: But since my lord
Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

Ant.
We will yet do well.

Cleo.
Call all his noble captains to my lord.

Ant.
Do so, we'll speak to them, and to night I'll force
The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my Queen;
There's sap in't yet. The next time I do fight,
I'll make death love me: for I will contend
Even with his pestilent scythe. [Exeunt.

&wlquo;Eno.
&wlquo;Now he'll out-stare the lightning; to be furious,
&wlquo;Is to be frighted out of fear; and, in that mood,
&wlquo;The dove will peck the estridge; and, I see still,
&wlquo;A diminution in our captain's brain

&wlquo;Restores his heart; when valour preys on reason,&wrquo;
It eats the sword it fights with: I will seek
Some way to leave him. [Exit.

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