When I lie pensive in my tent alone,
"Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights
To tell these pretty beads upon my arm,
To count for ev'ry one a soft embrace,
A melting kiss at such and such a time,
And now and then the fury of her love,
When-And what harm's in this?

Alex. None, none, my lord,

But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. Ant. [Going to tie it.] We soldiers are so awkwardhelp me tie it.

Alex. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward

In these affairs; so are all men indeed;
"Ev'n I who am not one." But shall I speak?

Ant. Yes, freely.

Alex. Then, my lord, fair hands alone

Are fit to tie it; she who sent it can.

Vent. Hell! death! this eunuch pander ruins you. You will not see her?

[Alexas whispers an Attendant, who goes out.

Ant. But to take my leave.

Vent. Then I have wash'd an Ethiop. Y' are un done!

Y'are in the toils! y' are taken! y' are destroy'd! Her eyes do Cæsar's work.

Ant. You fear too soon:

I'm constant to myself; I know my strength; And yet she shall not think me barb'rous neither,

Born in the deeps of Afric: I'm a Roman,
Bred to the rules of soft humanity.

A guest, and kindly us'd, should bid farewell.
Vent. You do not know

How weak you are to her, how much an infant;
You are not proof against a smile or glance;
A sigh will quite disarm you.

Ant. See, she comes!

Now you shall find your error. Gods! I thank you; I form'd the danger greater than it was,

And now 'tis near 'tis lessen'd.

Vent. Mark the end yet.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS.

Ant. Well, madam, we are met.

Cleo. Is this a meeting!

Then we must part!

Ant. We must.

Cleo. Who says we must

Ant. Our own hard fates.

Cleo. We make those fates ourselves.

Ant. Yes, we have made 'em; we have lov'd each other

Into our mutual ruin.

Cleo. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; "I have no friends in heav'n;" and all the world (As 'twere the bus'ness of mankind to part us) Is arm'd against my love; ev'n you yourself Join with the rest you, you are arm'd against me.

Ant. I will be justify'd in all I do

To late posterity, and therefore hear me.
If I mix a lie

With any truth, reproach me freely with it,
Else favour me with silence.

Cleo. You command me,

And I am dumb.

Vent. I like this well: he shows authority.

Ant. That I derive my ruin

From you alone

Cleo. Oh, Heav'ns! I ruin you!

Ant. You promis'd me your silence, and you break it Ere I have scarce begun.

Cleo. Well, I obey you.

Ant. When I beheld you first it was in Egypt,
Ere Cæsar saw your eyes: you gave me love,
And were too young to know it. That I settled
Your father in his throne was for your sake;
I left th' acknowledgment for time to ripen.
Cæsar stepp'd in, and with a greedy hand
Pluck'd the green fruit ere the first blush of red
Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord,
And was beside too great for me to rival :
But I deserv'd you first tho' he enjoy'd you.
When after I beheld you in Cilicia

An enemy to Rome, I pardon'd you.
Cleo. I clear'd myself-

Ant. Again you break your promise.

I lov'd you still, and took your weak excuses,
Took you into my bosom stain'd by Cæsar,

And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you,
And hid me from the bus'ness of the world,
Shut out inquiring nations from my sight
To give whole years to you.

Vent. Yes, to your shame be't spoken.
Ant. How I lov'd,

Witness ye days and nights, and all ye hours,
That danc'd away with down upon your feet,
As all your bus'ness were to count my passion.
One day past by and nothing saw but love;
Another came, and still 'twas only love:
The suns were weary'd out with looking on,
And I untir'd with loving.

I saw you ev'ry day, and all the day,
And ev'ry day was still but as the first,
So eager was I still to see you more.
Vent. 'Tis all too true.

Ant. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,
As she indeed had reason, rais'd a war
In Italy to call me back.

Vent. But yet

You went not.

Ant. While within your arms I lay

[Aside.

The world fell mould'ring from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp; I thank your love for't. Vent. Well push'd: that last was home.

Cleo. Yet may I speak?

Ant. If I have urg'd a falsehood, yes; else not. Your silence says I have not. Fulvia dy'd: (Pardon, you gods! with my unkindness dy'd.)

To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,
This Cæsar's sister. In her pride of youth
And flow'r of beauty did I wed that lady,
Whom, blushing, I must praise, altho' I left her.
You call'd; my love obey'd the fatal summons:
This rais'd the Roman arms; the cause was yours.
I would have fought by land, where I was stronger;
You hinder'd it; yet when I fought at sea
Forsook me fighting; and, oh stain to honour!
Oh lasting shame! I knew not that I fled,
But fled to follow you.

Vent. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails! And to appear magnificent in flight,

Drew half our strength away.

Ant. All this you

caus'd:

And would you multiply more ruins on me?
This honest man, my best, my only friend,
Has gather'd up the shipwreck of my fortunes:
Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits,
And you have watch'd the news, and bring your eyes
To seize them too. If you have aught to answer
Now speak, you have free leave.

Alex. She stands confounded:

Despair is in her eyes.

[Aside

Vent. Now lay a sigh i' th' way to stop his passage;

Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions:

'Tis like they shall be sold.

Cleo. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,

Already have condemn'd me? Shall I bring