Welcome to PhiloLogic  
   home |  the ARTFL project |  download |  documentation |  sample databases |   
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.

Previous section

Next section

SCENE X. Re-enter Antony, and Eros.

Ant.
Eros, thou yet behold'st me.

Eros.
Ay, noble Lord.

&plquo;Ant.
&plquo;Sometime, we see a cloud that's dragonish;
&plquo;A vapour, sometime, like a bear, or lion,
&plquo;A tower'd citadel, a pendant rock,
&plquo;A forked mountain, or blue promontory
&plquo;With trees upon't, that nod unto the world,
&plquo;And mock our eyes with air. Thou'st seen these signs,
&plquo;They are black Vesper's pageants.&prquo;

Eros.
Ay, my Lord.

&plquo;Ant.
&plquo;That, which is now a horse, even with a thought
&plquo;The Rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
&plquo;As water is in water.&prquo;

Eros.
It do's, my Lord.

Ant.
My good knave, Eros, now thy Captain is
Even such a body; here I'm Antony,
Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.
I made these wars for Ægypt; and the Queen,
Whose heart, I thought, I had, (for she had mine;
Which, whilst it was mine, had annext unto't
A million more, now lost!) she, Eros, has
3 note
Packt cards with Cæsar, and false play'd my Glory
Unto an enemy's triumph—

-- 197 --


Nay, weep not, gentle Eros, there is left us
Our selves to end our selves. Enter Mardian.
Oh, thy vile Lady!
Sh' has robb'd me of my sword.

Mar.
No, Antony!
My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes mingled
With thine entirely.

Ant.
Hence, saucy Eunuch, peace, she hath betray'd me,
And she shall die the death.

&plquo;Mar.
&plquo;Death of one person can be paid but once,
&plquo;And that she has discharg'd. What thou would'st do,
&plquo;Is done unto thy hand; the last she spake
&plquo;Was, Antony! most noble Antony!
&plquo;Then in the midst a tearing Groan did break
&plquo;The name of Antony; it was divided
&plquo;Between her heart and lips; she render'd life,
&plquo;Thy name so buried in her.&prquo;

Ant.
Dead then;

Mar.
Dead.

Ant.
Unarm me, Eros, the long day's task is done,
And we must sleep; that thou depart'st hence safe,
Does pay thy labour richly; go. [Exit Mardian.
Off, pluck off;—
The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep
The battery from my heart. O cleave, my sides!
Heart, once be stronger than thy continent,
Crack thy frail case! apace, Eros, apace.

-- 198 --


No more a Soldier—bruised pieces, go; [Unarming himself.
You have been nobly borne;—from me a while— [Exit Eros.
I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and
Weep for my pardon. So't must be, for now
All length is torture; since the torch is out,
Lye down and stray no further. Now all labour
Marrs what it does, yea, very force entangles
Itself with strength; 4 noteseal then, and all is done.
Eros!—I come, my Queen—Eros!—stay for me,
Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,
And with our sprightly port make the Ghosts gaze;
5 note





Dido and her Sichæus shall want troops,
And all the haunt be ours.—Come, Eros, Eros! Enter Eros.

Eros.
What would my Lord?

Ant.
Since Cleopatra died,
I've liv'd in such dishonour, that the Gods
Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword

-- 199 --


Quarter'd the world, and o'er green Neptune's back,
With ships, made cities; condemn myself, to lack
The courage of a woman; less noble minded
Than she, which, by her death, our Cæsar tells,
“I'm conqueror of myself.” Thou art sworn, Eros,
That when the exigent should come, which now
Is come indeed, when I should see behind me
Th' inevitable prosecution of disgrace
And horrour, that on my command thou then
Would'st kill me. Do it, for the time is come:
Thou strik'st not me, 'tis Cæsar thou defeat'st.
Put colour in thy cheek.

Eros.
The Gods with-hold me!
Shall I do That, which all the Parthian darts,
Though enemy, lost aim, and could not?

Ant.
Eros,
Would'st thou be window'd in great Rome, and see
Thy master thus with pleacht arms, bending down
His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd
To penetrative shame: whilst the wheel'd seat
Of fortunate Cæsar, drawn before him, branded
His baseness that ensued?

Eros.
I would not see't.

Ant.
Come then; for with a wound I must be cur'd.
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
Most useful for thy Country.

Eros.
Oh, Sir, pardon me.

Ant.
When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then
To do this when I bade thee? do it at once,
Or thy precedent services are all
But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and come.

Eros.
Turn from me then that noble countenance,
Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Ant.
Lo thee.—
[Turning from him.

Eros.
My sword is drawn.

Ant.
Then let it do at once

-- 200 --


The thing why thou hast drawn it.

Eros.
My dear Master,
My Captain, and my Emp'ror! Let me say,
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewel.

Ant.
'Tis said, man,—and farewel.

Eros.
Farewel, great Chief. Shall I strike now?

Ant.
Now, Eros.

Eros.
Why, there then— [Eros kills himself.
Thus do I escape the sorrow
Of Antony's death.
[Dies.

Ant.
Thrice nobler than myself!
Thou teachest me, oh, valiant Eros, what
I should, and thou could'st not; my Queen and Eros
Have by their brave instruction got upon me
A Nobleness in Record. But I will be
A Bridegroom in my death, and run into't
As to a Lover's bed. Come then; and, Eros,
Thy Master dies thy Scholar; to do thus [Falling on his sword.
I learnt of thee. How, not yet dead? not dead?—
The guard—ho!—oh, dispatch me.
Previous section

Next section


Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
Powered by PhiloLogic