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Ant. She is cunning past man's thought.
Eno. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love: We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacks can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.
Ant. 'Would I had never seen her!
Eno. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which not to have been bless'd withal, would have discredited your travel.
Ant. Fulvia is dead.
Ant. Fulvia is dead.
Eno. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented: this grief is crown'd with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat: and, indeed, the tears live in an onion, that should water this
Ant. The business she hath broached in the state, Cannot endure my absence.
Eno. And the business you have broach'd here cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends on your abode.
Ant. No more light answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break The cause of our expedience to the queen, And get her love to part. For not alone The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, Do strongly speak to us; but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home: Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Cæsar, and commands The empire of the sea: our slippery people (Whose love is never link'd to the deserver, Till his deserts are past) begin to throw Pompey the great, and all his dignities, Upon his son; who, high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life, stands up For the main soldier: whose quality, going on, The sides o'the world may danger: Much is breeding,
Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life,
Eno. I shall do't.
Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas.
Cleo. Where is he?
I did not see him since. Cleo. See where he is, who's with him, what he
I did not send you;-If you find him sad,
[Exit Alex. Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.
What should I do, I do not? Char. In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing.
Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose · him.
Char. Tempt him not so too far: I wish, forbear;
In time we hate that which we often fear.
But here comes Antony.
I am sick, and sullen. Ant. I am sorry to give breathing to my pur
Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian, I shall - fall;
It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature
Will not sustain it.
What the married woman?-You may go;
'Would, she had never given you leave to come!
O, never was there queen
So mightily betray'd! Yet, at the first,
Cleo. Why should I think, you can be mine, and true,
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, Which break themselves in swearing!
Most sweet queen,Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,
But bid farewel, and go: when you sued staying,
Bliss in our brows' bent; none our parts so poor,
Hear me, queen:
How now, lady! Cleo. I would, I had thy inches; thou should'st know,
There were a heart in Egypt.
Shines o'er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius
Breeds scrupulous faction: The hated, grown to strength,
Are newly grown to love: the condemn'd Pompey,
Into the hearts of such as have not thriv'd
Cleo. Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness:-Can Fulvia die?
Ant. She's dead, my queen:
Look here, and, at thy sovereign leisure, read
Cleo. O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou should'st fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be.
Ant. Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd to know The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, shall give the advice: Now, by the fire, That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence, Thy soldier, servant; making peace, or war, As thou affect'st.
Cleo. Cut my lace, Charmian, come;But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well: