Το say
I would not but I dare not leave you;
And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence

So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

Ant. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;
And, if a foe, too much.

Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew;

I have not wept these forty years; but now

My mother comes afresh unto my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

Ant. By Heaven, he weeps!-poor, good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death; they set my shame,
That caused 'em, full before me.

Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends; See, I have caught it too.

Believe me, 'tis not

-Nay, father

For my own griefs, but thine

Vent. Emperor !

Ant. Emperor? Why, that's the style of victory!

The conqu❜ring soldier, and with unfelt wounds,

Salutes his general so: but never more

Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent. It sits too near you.

Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day;

And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,

The hag that rides my dreams

Vent. Out with it! give it vent.

Ant. Urge not my shame

I lost a battle!

Vent. So has Julius done.

Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou

think'st;

For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly;

But Antony

Vent. Nay, stop not.

Ant. Antony

(Well, thou wilt have it), like a coward, fled,—

Fled while his soldiers fought!—fled first, Ventidius.
Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.

I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

Vent. I did.

Ant. I'll help thee-I have been a man, Ventidius.
Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but-

Ant. I know thy meaning.

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced
The name of soldier with inglorious ease;
In the full vintage of my flowing honours
Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands.
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it.
And purple greatness met my ripened years.
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs.
The wish of nations, and the willing world,
Received me as its pledge of future peace.
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,
Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,

And worked against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turned her loose: yet still she came again.
My careless days and my luxurious nights

At length have wearied her, and now she's gone;
Gone, gone, divorced forever. Help me, soldier,
To curse this madman, this industrious fool,

Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me.
Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done; too conscious of your failings.
And like a scorpion, whipped by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.
Ant. I know thou wouldst.

Vent. I will.

Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Vent. You laugh.

Ant. I do, to see officious love

Give cordials to the dead.

Vent. You would be lost, then?

Ant. I am.

Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

Ant. I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me des

perate

Without just cause? No; when I found all lost

Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learned to scorn it here; which now I do

So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

Vent. Cæsar thinks not so:

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
You would be killed like Tully, would you? Do
Hold out your throat to Cæsar, and die tamely.

Ant. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

Vent. I can die with you, too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live,

To fight, to conquer.

Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius ?

Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief. By painful journeys

I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile.

'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in

'em :

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates

Than trim bands can buy. yon

Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these.

Vent. They will not come.

Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids,

To double my despair? They're mutinous.

Vent. Most firm and loyal.

Ant. Yet they will not march

To succour me. Oh, trifler!

Vent. They petition

You would make haste to head 'em.

Ant. I'm besieged.

Vent. There's but one way shut up. How came I

hither?

Ant. I will not stir.

Vent. They would perhaps desire

A better reason.

Ant. I have never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Ant. What was't they said?

Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.
Why should they fight, indeed, to make her conquer,
And make you more a slave? To gain you kingdoms
Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast
You'll sell to her? Then she new names her jewels,
And calls this diamond such or such a tax.
Each pendent in her ear shall be a province.

Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra; she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you powers,

To whom you have intrusted human-kind;

See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light worthless woman! I think the gods are Antonies, and give,

Like prodigals, this nether world away

To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall.

Oh, that thou wert my equal; great in arms