Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. |
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Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN. |
Cleo. Charmian! |
Char. Madam! |
Cleo. Ha, ha! |
Give me to drink mandragora. |
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 aught a 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 in deed is honest to be done; |
Yet have I fierce affections, and think |
What Venus did with Mars. |
Cleo. O Charmian! |
Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he? |
Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? |
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! |
Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st? |
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm |
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now, |
Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?' |
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself |
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. |
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Enter ALEXAS. |
Alex. Sovereign of Egypt, hail! |
Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony! |
Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath |
With his tinct gilded thee. |
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony? |
Alex. Last thing he did, dear queen, |
He kiss'd, the last of many doubled kisses, |
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart. |
Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence. |
Alex. 'Good friend,' quoth he, |
'Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt 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'd by him. |
Cleo. What! was he sad or merry? |
Alex. Like to the time o' the year between the extremes |
Of hot and cold; he was nor sad nor merry. |
Cleo. O well-divided disposition! Note him, |
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 Egypt with his joy; but between both: |
O heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry, |
The violence of either thee becomes, |
So does it no man else. Mett'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. O! that brave Cæsar. |
Cleo. Be chok'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 salad 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 a several greeting, |
Or I'll unpeople Egypt. [Exeunt. |
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