The Same. A Monument. |
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Enter CLEOPATRA and her maids aloft, with CHARMIAN and IRAS. |
Cle. O Charmian! I will never go from hence. |
Char. Be comforted, dear madam. |
Cleo. No, I will not. |
All strange and terrible events are welcome, |
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow, |
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great |
As that which makes it. |
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Enter, below, DIOMEDES. |
How now! is he dead? |
Dio. His death's upon him, but not dead. |
Look out o' the other side your monument; |
His guard have brought him thither. |
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Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the Guard. |
Cleo. O sun! |
Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in; darkling stand |
The varying star o' the world. O Antony, |
Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help; |
Help, friends below! let's draw him hither. |
Ant. Peace! |
Not Cæsar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony, |
But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself. |
Cleo. So it should be, that none but Antony |
Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so! |
Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only |
I here importune death awhile, until |
Of many thousand kisses the poor last |
I lay upon thy lips. |
Cleo. I dare not, dear,— |
Dear my lord, pardon,—I dare not, |
Lest I be taken: not the imperious show |
Of the full-fortun'd Cæsar ever shall |
Be brooch'd with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have |
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe: |
Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes |
And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour |
Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,— |
Help me, my women,—we must draw thee up. |
Assist, good friends. |
Ant. O! quick, or I am gone. |
Cleo. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! |
Our strength is all gone into heaviness, |
That makes the weight. Had I great Juno's power, |
The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up, |
And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little, |
Wishers were ever fools. O! come, come, come; [They heave ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA. |
And welcome, welcome! die where thou hast liv'd; |
Quicken with kissing; had my lips that power, |
Thus would I wear them out. |
All. A heavy sight! |
Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying: |
Give me some wine, and let me speak a little. |
Cleo. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high, |
That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel, |
Provok'd by my offence. |
Ant. One word, sweet queen. |
Of Cæsar seek your honour with your safety. O! |
Cleo. They do not go together. |
Ant. Gentle, hear me: |
None about Cæsar trust, but Proculeius. |
Cleo. My resolution and my hands I'll trust; |
None about Cæsar. |
Ant. The miserable change now at my end |
Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts |
In feeding them with those my former fortunes |
Wherein I liv'd, the greatest prince o' the world, |
The noblest; and do now not basely die, |
Not cowardly put off my helmet to |
My countryman; a Roman by a Roman |
Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going; |
I can no more. |
Cleo. Noblest of men, woo 't die? |
Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide |
In this dull world, which in thy absence is |
No better than a sty? O! see my women, [ANTONY dies. |
The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! |
O! wither'd is the garland of the war, |
The soldier's pole is fall'n; young boys and girls |
Are level now with men; the odds is gone, |
And there is nothing left remarkable |
Beneath the visiting moon. [Swoons. |
Char. O, quietness, lady! |
Iras. She is dead too, our sovereign. |
Char. Lady! |
Iras. Madam! |
Char. O madam, madam, madam! |
Iras. Royal Egypt! |
Empress! |
Char. Peace, peace, Iras! |
Cleo. No more, but e'en a woman, and commanded |
By such poor passion as the maid that milks |
And does the meanest chares. It were for me |
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods; |
To tell them that this world did equal theirs |
Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but naught; |
Patience is sottish, and impatience does |
Become a dog that's mad; then is it sin |
To rush into the secret house of death, |
Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? |
What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian! |
My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look! |
Our lamp is spent, it's out. Good sirs, take heart;— |
We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble, |
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, |
And make death proud to take us. Come, away; |
This case of that huge spirit now is cold; |
Ah! women, women. Come; we have no friend |
But resolution, and the briefest end. [Exeunt; those above bearing off ANTONY'S body. |
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