Act IV, Scene III — The Florentine camp…

Act IV, Scene III — The Florentine camp

Enter the two French Lords and two or three Soldiers.

FIRST LORD. You have not given him his mother’s letter?

SECOND LORD. I have deliv’red it an hour since; there is something in’t that stings his nature; for on the reading it, he chang’d almost into another man.

FIRST LORD. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

SECOND LORD. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tun’d his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

FIRST LORD. When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

SECOND LORD. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown, and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour; he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

FIRST LORD. Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves, what things are we!

SECOND LORD. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves till they attain to their abhorr’d ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream, o’erflows himself.

FIRST LORD. Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company tonight?

SECOND LORD. Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.

FIRST LORD. That approaches apace. I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

SECOND LORD. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.

FIRST LORD. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?

SECOND LORD. I hear there is an overture of peace.

FIRST LORD. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

SECOND LORD. What will Count Rossillon do then? Will he travel higher, or return again into France?

FIRST LORD. I perceive by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

SECOND LORD. Let it be forbid, sir! So should I be a great deal of his act.

FIRST LORD. Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house. Her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

SECOND LORD. How is this justified?

FIRST LORD. The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death. Her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirm’d by the rector of the place.

SECOND LORD. Hath the count all this intelligence?

FIRST LORD. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.

SECOND LORD. I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

FIRST LORD. How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

SECOND LORD. And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir’d for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

FIRST LORD. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish’d by our virtues.

Enter a Messenger.

How now? Where’s your master?

MESSENGER. He met the duke in the street, sir; of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

SECOND LORD. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

Enter Bertram.

FIRST LORD. They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. How now, my lord, is’t not after midnight?

BERTRAM. I have tonight despatch’d sixteen businesses, a month’s length apiece; by an abstract of success: I have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourn’d for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy, and between these main parcels of despatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

SECOND LORD. If the business be of any difficulty and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

BERTRAM. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the Fool and the Soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module has deceiv’d me like a double-meaning prophesier.

SECOND LORD. Bring him forth.

[Exeunt Soldiers.]

Has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

BERTRAM. No matter; his heels have deserv’d it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?

FIRST LORD. I have told your lordship already; the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood: he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk; he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks. And what think you he hath confessed?

BERTRAM. Nothing of me, has he?

SECOND LORD. His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face; if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.

Enter Soldiers with Parolles.

BERTRAM. A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me; hush, hush!

FIRST LORD. Hoodman comes! Portotartarossa.

FIRST SOLDIER. He calls for the tortures. What will you say without ’em?

PAROLLES. I will confess what I know without constraint. If ye pinch me like a pasty I can say no more.

FIRST SOLDIER. Bosko chimurcho.

FIRST LORD. Boblibindo chicurmurco.

FIRST SOLDIER. You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

PAROLLES. And truly, as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER. ‘First demand of him how many horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to that?

PAROLLES. Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER. Shall I set down your answer so?

PAROLLES. Do. I’ll take the sacrament on ’t, how and which way you will.

BERTRAM. All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

FIRST LORD. You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase), that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

SECOND LORD. I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.

PAROLLES. ‘Five or six thousand horse’ I said—I will say true—or thereabouts, set down,—for I’ll speak truth.

FIRST LORD. He’s very near the truth in this.

BERTRAM. But I con him no thanks for’t in the nature he delivers it.

PAROLLES. Poor rogues, I pray you say.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.

PAROLLES. I humbly thank you, sir; a truth’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous poor.

FIRST SOLDIER. ‘Demand of him of what strength they are a-foot.’ What say you to that?

PAROLLES. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty, Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks lest they shake themselves to pieces.

BERTRAM. What shall be done to him?

FIRST LORD. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down. ‘You shall demand of him whether one Captain Dumaine be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke, what his valour, honesty and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible with well-weighing sums of gold to corrupt him to a revolt.’ What say you to this? What do you know of it?

PAROLLES. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories. Demand them singly.

FIRST SOLDIER. Do you know this Captain Dumaine?

PAROLLES. I know him: he was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child, a dumb innocent that could not say him nay.

[First Lord lifts up his hand in anger.]

BERTRAM. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?

PAROLLES. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

FIRST LORD. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

FIRST SOLDIER. What is his reputation with the duke?

PAROLLES. The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band. I think I have his letter in my pocket.

FIRST SOLDIER. Marry, we’ll search.

PAROLLES. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it is upon a file, with the duke’s other letters, in my tent.

FIRST SOLDIER. Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?

PAROLLES. I do not know if it be it or no.

BERTRAM. Our interpreter does it well.

FIRST LORD. Excellently.

FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads.] Dian, the Count’s a fool, and full of gold.

PAROLLES. That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rossillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up again.

FIRST SOLDIER. Nay, I’ll read it first by your favour.

PAROLLES. My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

BERTRAM. Damnable both sides rogue!

FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads.] _When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it; After he scores, he never pays the score. Half won is match well made; match, and well make it; He ne’er pays after-debts, take it before. And say a soldier, ‘Dian,’ told thee this: Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss; For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it, Who pays before, but not when he does owe it. Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear,_ PAROLLES.

BERTRAM. He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead.

SECOND LORD. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.

BERTRAM. I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.

FIRST SOLDIER. I perceive, sir, by our general’s looks we shall be fain to hang you.

PAROLLES. My life, sir, in any case. Not that I am afraid to die, but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.

FIRST SOLDIER. We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely. Therefore, once more to this Captain Dumaine: you have answer’d to his reputation with the duke, and to his valour. What is his honesty?

PAROLLES. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty; he has everything that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.

FIRST LORD. I begin to love him for this.

BERTRAM. For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat.

FIRST SOLDIER. What say you to his expertness in war?

PAROLLES. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not, except in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

FIRST LORD. He hath out-villain’d villainy so far that the rarity redeems him.

BERTRAM. A pox on him! He’s a cat still.

FIRST SOLDIER. His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

PAROLLES. Sir, for a quart d’ecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.

FIRST SOLDIER. What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumaine?

SECOND LORD. Why does he ask him of me?

FIRST SOLDIER. What’s he?

PAROLLES. E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.

FIRST SOLDIER. If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

PAROLLES. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rossillon.

FIRST SOLDIER. I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

PAROLLES. [Aside.] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger: yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?

FIRST SOLDIER. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. The general says you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

PAROLLES. O Lord! sir, let me live, or let me see my death.

FIRST SOLDIER. That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

[Unmuffling him.]

So, look about you; know you any here?

BERTRAM. Good morrow, noble captain.

SECOND LORD. God bless you, Captain Parolles.

FIRST LORD. God save you, noble captain.

SECOND LORD. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France.

FIRST LORD. Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rossillon? And I were not a very coward I’d compel it of you; but fare you well.

[Exeunt Bertram, Lords &c.]

FIRST SOLDIER. You are undone, captain: all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

PAROLLES. Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

FIRST SOLDIER. If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir. I am for France too; we shall speak of you there.

[Exeunt.]

PAROLLES. Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great ’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more, But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft As captain shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword; cool, blushes; and, Parolles live Safest in shame; being fool’d, by foolery thrive. There’s place and means for every man alive. I’ll after them.

[Exit.]

Act IV, Scene IV — Florence. A room in the Widow’s house

Enter Helena, Widow and Diana.

HELENA. That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my surety; fore whose throne ’tis needful, Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. Time was I did him a desired office, Dear almost as his life; which gratitude Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth, And answer thanks. I duly am inform’d His grace is at Marseilles; to which place We have convenient convoy. You must know I am supposed dead. The army breaking, My husband hies him home, where, heaven aiding, And by the leave of my good lord the king, We’ll be before our welcome.

WIDOW. Gentle madam, You never had a servant to whose trust Your business was more welcome.

HELENA. Nor you, mistress, Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower, As it hath fated her to be my motive And helper to a husband. But, O strange men! That can such sweet use make of what they hate, When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts Defiles the pitchy night; so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away. But more of this hereafter. You, Diana, Under my poor instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalf.

DIANA. Let death and honesty Go with your impositions, I am yours Upon your will to suffer.

HELENA. Yet, I pray you; But with the word the time will bring on summer, When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us. All’s well that ends well; still the fine’s the crown. Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene V — Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace

Enter Clown, Countess and Lafew.

LAFEW. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbak’d and doughy youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanc’d by the king than by that red-tail’d humble-bee I speak of.

COUNTESS. I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.

LAFEW. ’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather, the herb of grace.

LAFEW. They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

CLOWN. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

LAFEW. Whether dost thou profess thyself,—a knave or a fool?

CLOWN. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.

LAFEW. Your distinction?

CLOWN. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.

LAFEW. So you were a knave at his service indeed.

CLOWN. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

LAFEW. I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool.

CLOWN. At your service.

LAFEW. No, no, no.

CLOWN. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.

LAFEW. Who’s that? a Frenchman?

CLOWN. Faith, sir, ’a has an English name; but his phisnomy is more hotter in France than there.

LAFEW. What prince is that?

CLOWN. The black prince, sir; alias the prince of darkness; alias the devil.

LAFEW. Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk’st of; serve him still.

CLOWN. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But sure he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flow’ry way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.

LAFEW. Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my horses be well look’d to, without any tricks.

CLOWN. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.

[Exit.]

LAFEW. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.

COUNTESS. So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him; by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs where he will.

LAFEW. I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death, and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty out of a self-gracious remembrance did first propose. His highness hath promis’d me to do it; and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

COUNTESS. With very much content, my lord, and I wish it happily effected.

LAFEW. His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he number’d thirty; he will be here tomorrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom fail’d.

COUNTESS. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here tonight. I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.

LAFEW. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

COUNTESS. You need but plead your honourable privilege.

LAFEW. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my God, it holds yet.

Enter Clown.

CLOWN. O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face; whether there be a scar under’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

LAFEW. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

CLOWN. But it is your carbonado’d face.

LAFEW. Let us go see your son, I pray you. I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

CLOWN. Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene I — Marseilles. A street

Enter Helena, Widow and Diana with two Attendants.

HELENA. But this exceeding posting day and night Must wear your spirits low. We cannot help it. But since you have made the days and nights as one, To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, Be bold you do so grow in my requital As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;—

Enter a Gentleman.

This man may help me to his majesty’s ear, If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

GENTLEMAN. And you.

HELENA. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

GENTLEMAN. I have been sometimes there.

HELENA. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen From the report that goes upon your goodness; And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The use of your own virtues, for the which I shall continue thankful.

GENTLEMAN. What’s your will?

HELENA. That it will please you To give this poor petition to the king, And aid me with that store of power you have To come into his presence.

GENTLEMAN. The king’s not here.

HELENA. Not here, sir?

GENTLEMAN. Not indeed. He hence remov’d last night, and with more haste Than is his use.

WIDOW. Lord, how we lose our pains!

HELENA. All’s well that ends well yet, Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

GENTLEMAN. Marry, as I take it, to Rossillon; Whither I am going.

HELENA. I do beseech you, sir, Since you are like to see the king before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand, Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thank your pains for it. I will come after you with what good speed Our means will make us means.

GENTLEMAN. This I’ll do for you.

HELENA. And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again. Go, go, provide.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene II — Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace

Enter Clown and Parolles.

PAROLLES. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafew this letter; I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.

CLOWN. Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly as thou speak’st of. I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Pr’ythee, allow the wind.

PAROLLES. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir. I spake but by a metaphor.

CLOWN. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose, or against any man’s metaphor. Pr’ythee, get thee further.

PAROLLES. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

CLOWN. Foh, pr’ythee stand away. A paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.

Enter Lafew.

Here is a pur of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat, but not a musk-cat, that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES. My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratch’d.

LAFEW. And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a quart d’ecu for you. Let the justices make you and Fortune friends; I am for other business.

PAROLLES. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

LAFEW. You beg a single penny more. Come, you shall ha’t; save your word.

PAROLLES. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

LAFEW. You beg more than word then. Cox my passion! Give me your hand. How does your drum?

PAROLLES. O my good lord, you were the first that found me.

LAFEW. Was I, in sooth? And I was the first that lost thee.

PAROLLES. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

LAFEW. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? One brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out.

[Trumpets sound.]

The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me. I had talk of you last night; though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat. Go to; follow.

PAROLLES. I praise God for you.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene III — The same. A room in the Countess’s palace

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafew, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards &c.

KING. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem Was made much poorer by it; but your son, As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know Her estimation home.

COUNTESS. ’Tis past, my liege, And I beseech your majesty to make it Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth, When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, O’erbears it and burns on.

KING. My honour’d lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all, Though my revenges were high bent upon him, And watch’d the time to shoot.

LAFEW. This I must say,— But first, I beg my pardon,—the young lord Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady, Offence of mighty note; but to himself The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive; Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress.

KING. Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion do we bury Th’ incensing relics of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and inform him So ’tis our will he should.

GENTLEMAN. I shall, my liege.

[Exit Gentleman.]

KING. What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?

LAFEW. All that he is hath reference to your highness.

KING. Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me That sets him high in fame.

Enter Bertram.

LAFEW. He looks well on ’t.

KING. I am not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once. But to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth; The time is fair again.

BERTRAM. My high-repented blames Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

KING. All is whole. Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees Th’inaudible and noiseless foot of time Steals ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this lord?

BERTRAM. Admiringly, my liege. At first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold herald of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye infixing, Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, Which warp’d the line of every other favour, Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous object. Thence it came That she whom all men prais’d, and whom myself, Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye The dust that did offend it.

KING. Well excus’d: That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, That’s good that’s gone. Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave. Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust: Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin. The main consents are had, and here we’ll stay To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

COUNTESS. Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless! Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

LAFEW. Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name Must be digested; give a favour from you, To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come.

[Bertram gives a ring to Lafew.]

By my old beard, And ev’ry hair that’s on ’t, Helen that’s dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that e’er I took her leave at court, I saw upon her finger.

BERTRAM. Hers it was not.

KING. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to it. This ring was mine; and when I gave it Helen I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitied to help, that by this token I would relieve her. Had you that craft to ’reave her Of what should stead her most?

BERTRAM. My gracious sovereign, Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, The ring was never hers.

COUNTESS. Son, on my life, I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it At her life’s rate.

LAFEW. I am sure I saw her wear it.

BERTRAM. You are deceiv’d, my lord; she never saw it. In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought I stood engag’d; but when I had subscrib’d To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully I could not answer in that course of honour As she had made the overture, she ceas’d, In heavy satisfaction, and would never Receive the ring again.

KING. Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, Hath not in nature’s mystery more science Than I have in this ring. ’Twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, Whoever gave it you. Then if you know That you are well acquainted with yourself, Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety That she would never put it from her finger Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, Where you have never come, or sent it us Upon her great disaster.

BERTRAM. She never saw it.

KING. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour, And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly. And she is dead; which nothing but to close Her eyes myself, could win me to believe More than to see this ring. Take him away.

[Guards seize Bertram.]

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity, Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him. We’ll sift this matter further.

BERTRAM. If you shall prove This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where she yet never was.

[Exit, guarded.]

KING. I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

Enter a Gentleman.

GENTLEMAN. Gracious sovereign, Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not: Here’s a petition from a Florentine, Who hath for four or five removes come short To tender it herself. I undertook it, Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know, Is here attending: her business looks in her With an importing visage, and she told me In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern Your highness with herself.

KING. [Reads.] Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rossillon a widower; his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king, in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. DIANA CAPILET.

LAFEW. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this. I’ll none of him.

KING. The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafew, To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors. Go speedily, and bring again the count.

[Exeunt Gentleman and some Attendants.]

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady, Was foully snatch’d.

COUNTESS. Now, justice on the doers!

Enter Bertram, guarded.

KING. I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters to you, And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry. What woman’s that?

Enter Widow and Diana.

DIANA. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capilet; My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

WIDOW. I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour Both suffer under this complaint we bring, And both shall cease, without your remedy.

KING. Come hither, count; do you know these women?

BERTRAM. My lord, I neither can nor will deny But that I know them. Do they charge me further?

DIANA. Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

BERTRAM. She’s none of mine, my lord.

DIANA. If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and that is mine, You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine, You give away myself, which is known mine; For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me, Either both or none.

LAFEW. [To Bertram] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are no husband for her.

BERTRAM. My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature Whom sometime I have laugh’d with. Let your highness Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour Than for to think that I would sink it here.

KING. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend Till your deeds gain them; fairer prove your honour Than in my thought it lies!

DIANA. Good my lord, Ask him upon his oath, if he does think He had not my virginity.

KING. What say’st thou to her?

BERTRAM. She’s impudent, my lord, And was a common gamester to the camp.

DIANA. He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so He might have bought me at a common price. Do not believe him. O, behold this ring, Whose high respect and rich validity Did lack a parallel; yet for all that He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, If I be one.

COUNTESS. He blushes, and ’tis it. Of six preceding ancestors, that gem Conferr’d by testament to th’ sequent issue, Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife; That ring’s a thousand proofs.

KING. Methought you said You saw one here in court could witness it.

DIANA. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument; his name’s Parolles.

LAFEW. I saw the man today, if man he be.

KING. Find him, and bring him hither.

[Exit an Attendant.]

BERTRAM. What of him? He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave, With all the spots o’ the world tax’d and debauch’d: Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth. Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter, That will speak anything?

KING. She hath that ring of yours.

BERTRAM. I think she has. Certain it is I lik’d her And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. She knew her distance, and did angle for me, Madding my eagerness with her restraint, As all impediments in fancy’s course Are motives of more fancy; and in fine, Her infinite cunning with her modern grace, Subdu’d me to her rate; she got the ring, And I had that which any inferior might At market-price have bought.

DIANA. I must be patient. You that have turn’d off a first so noble wife May justly diet me. I pray you yet,— Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband— Send for your ring, I will return it home, And give me mine again.

BERTRAM. I have it not.

KING. What ring was yours, I pray you?

DIANA. Sir, much like The same upon your finger.

KING. Know you this ring? This ring was his of late.

DIANA. And this was it I gave him, being abed.

KING. The story then goes false you threw it him Out of a casement.

DIANA. I have spoke the truth.

Enter Attendant with Parolles.

BERTRAM. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

KING. You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts you. Is this the man you speak of?

DIANA. Ay, my lord.

KING. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true I charge you, Not fearing the displeasure of your master, Which on your just proceeding, I’ll keep off,— By him and by this woman here what know you?

PAROLLES. So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman. Tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.

KING. Come, come, to the purpose. Did he love this woman?

PAROLLES. Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

KING. How, I pray you?

PAROLLES. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

KING. How is that?

PAROLLES. He lov’d her, sir, and lov’d her not.

KING. As thou art a knave and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this!

PAROLLES. I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.

LAFEW. He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

DIANA. Do you know he promised me marriage?

PAROLLES. Faith, I know more than I’ll speak.

KING. But wilt thou not speak all thou know’st?

PAROLLES. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them as I said; but more than that, he loved her, for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of Limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.

KING. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married; but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside. This ring, you say, was yours?

DIANA. Ay, my good lord.

KING. Where did you buy it? Or who gave it you?

DIANA. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

KING. Who lent it you?

DIANA. It was not lent me neither.

KING. Where did you find it then?

DIANA. I found it not.

KING. If it were yours by none of all these ways, How could you give it him?

DIANA. I never gave it him.

LAFEW. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord; she goes off and on at pleasure.

KING. This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.

DIANA. It might be yours or hers for ought I know.

KING. Take her away, I do not like her now. To prison with her. And away with him. Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring, Thou diest within this hour.

DIANA. I’ll never tell you.

KING. Take her away.

DIANA. I’ll put in bail, my liege.

KING. I think thee now some common customer.

DIANA. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’twas you.

KING. Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all this while?

DIANA. Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty. He knows I am no maid, and he’ll swear to’t: I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life; I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

[Pointing to Lafew.]

KING. She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.

DIANA. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir;

[Exit Widow.]

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for, And he shall surety me. But for this lord Who hath abus’d me as he knows himself, Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him. He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d; And at that time he got his wife with child. Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick; So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick, And now behold the meaning.

Enter Widow with Helena.

KING. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is’t real that I see?

HELENA. No, my good lord; ’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, The name, and not the thing.

BERTRAM. Both, both. O, pardon!

HELENA. O, my good lord, when I was like this maid; I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring, And, look you, here’s your letter. This it says, ‘When from my finger you can get this ring, And is by me with child, &c.’ This is done; Will you be mine now you are doubly won?

BERTRAM. If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

HELENA. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue, Deadly divorce step between me and you! O my dear mother, do I see you living?

LAFEW. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [to Parolles] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher. So, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee. Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

KING. Let us from point to point this story know, To make the even truth in pleasure flow. [To Diana.] If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower, Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower; For I can guess that by thy honest aid, Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid. Of that and all the progress more and less, Resolvedly more leisure shall express. All yet seems well, and if it end so meet, The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

[Flourish.]

[EPILOGUE]

_The king’s a beggar, now the play is done; All is well ended if this suit be won, That you express content; which we will pay With strife to please you, day exceeding day. Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts; Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts._

[Exeunt omnes.]

THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

Dramatis Personæ

MARK ANTONY, Triumvir OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir LEPIDUS, Triumvir SEXTUS POMPEIUS, DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony VENTIDIUS, friend to Antony EROS, friend to Antony SCARUS, friend to Antony DERCETUS, friend to Antony DEMETRIUS, friend to Antony PHILO, friend to Antony MAECENAS, friend to Caesar AGRIPPA, friend to Caesar DOLABELLA, friend to Caesar PROCULEIUS, friend to Caesar THIDIAS, friend to Caesar GALLUS, friend to Caesar MENAS, friend to Pompey MENECRATES, friend to Pompey VARRIUS, friend to Pompey TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius’s army EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra MARDIAN, attendant on Cleopatra SELEUCUS, attendant on Cleopatra DIOMEDES, attendant on Cleopatra A SOOTHSAYER A CLOWN

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony CHARMIAN, Attendant on Cleopatra IRAS, Attendant on Cleopatra

Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants

SCENE: Dispersed, in several parts of the Roman Empire.

Act I, Scene I — Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace

Enter Demetrius and Philo.

PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general’s O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes, That o’er the files and musters of the war Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy’s lust.

Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her.

Look where they come: Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform’d Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.

CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

ANTONY. There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

CLEOPATRA. I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome.

ANTONY. Grates me, the sum.

CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony. Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this; Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that. Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”

ANTONY. How, my love?

CLEOPATRA. Perchance! Nay, and most like. You must not stay here longer; your dismission Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony. Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both? Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!

ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life Is to do thus [Embracing]; when such a mutual pair And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless.

CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood! Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her? I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony Will be himself.

ANTONY. But stirred by Cleopatra. Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh. There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?

CLEOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors.

ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee fair and admired! No messenger but thine, and all alone Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note The qualities of people. Come, my queen, Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.

[Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra with the Train.]

DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?

PHILO. Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony, He comes too short of that great property Which still should go with Antony.

DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry That he approves the common liar who Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene II — Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace

Enter Enobarbus, a Soothsayer, Charmian, Iras, Mardian and Alexas.

CHARMIAN. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to th’ queen? O, that I knew this husband which you say must charge his horns with garlands!

ALEXAS. Soothsayer!

SOOTHSAYER. Your will?

CHARMIAN. Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?

SOOTHSAYER. In nature’s infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.

ALEXAS. Show him your hand.

ENOBARBUS. Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough Cleopatra’s health to drink.

CHARMIAN. Good, sir, give me good fortune.

SOOTHSAYER. I make not, but foresee.

CHARMIAN. Pray, then, foresee me one.

SOOTHSAYER. You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

CHARMIAN. He means in flesh.

IRAS. No, you shall paint when you are old.

CHARMIAN. Wrinkles forbid!

ALEXAS. Vex not his prescience. Be attentive.

CHARMIAN. Hush!

SOOTHSAYER. You shall be more beloving than beloved.

CHARMIAN. I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

ALEXAS. Nay, hear him.

CHARMIAN. Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon and widow them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.

SOOTHSAYER. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

CHARMIAN. O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.

SOOTHSAYER. You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune Than that which is to approach.

CHARMIAN. Then belike my children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?

SOOTHSAYER. If every of your wishes had a womb, And fertile every wish, a million.

CHARMIAN. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

ALEXAS. You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.

CHARMIAN. Nay, come, tell Iras hers.

ALEXAS. We’ll know all our fortunes.

ENOBARBUS. Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight, shall be drunk to bed.

IRAS. There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.

CHARMIAN. E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.

IRAS. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

CHARMIAN. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but workaday fortune.

SOOTHSAYER. Your fortunes are alike.

IRAS. But how, but how? give me particulars.

SOOTHSAYER. I have said.

IRAS. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

CHARMIAN. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?

IRAS. Not in my husband’s nose.

CHARMIAN. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas—come, his fortune! his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee, and let her die too, and give him a worse, and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!

IRAS. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum and fortune him accordingly!

CHARMIAN. Amen.

ALEXAS. Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores but they’d do’t!

Enter Cleopatra.

ENOBARBUS. Hush, Here comes Antony.

CHARMIAN. Not he, the queen.

CLEOPATRA. Saw you my lord?

ENOBARBUS. No, lady.

CLEOPATRA. Was he not here?

CHARMIAN. No, madam.

CLEOPATRA. He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

ENOBARBUS. Madam?

CLEOPATRA. Seek him and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?

ALEXAS. Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

Enter Antony with a Messenger.

CLEOPATRA. We will not look upon him. Go with us.

[Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas and Soothsayer.]

MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

ANTONY. Against my brother Lucius.

MESSENGER. Ay. But soon that war had end, and the time’s state Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Caesar, Whose better issue in the war from Italy Upon the first encounter drave them.

ANTONY. Well, what worst?

MESSENGER. The nature of bad news infects the teller.

ANTONY. When it concerns the fool or coward. On. Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus: Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, I hear him as he flattered.

MESSENGER. Labienus— This is stiff news—hath with his Parthian force Extended Asia from Euphrates His conquering banner shook from Syria To Lydia and to Ionia, Whilst—

ANTONY. “Antony”, thou wouldst say—

MESSENGER. O, my lord!

ANTONY. Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue. Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome; Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase, and taunt my faults With such full licence as both truth and malice Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.

MESSENGER. At your noble pleasure.

[Exit Messenger.]

Enter another Messenger.

ANTONY. From Sicyon, ho, the news? Speak there!

SECOND MESSENGER. The man from Sicyon—

ANTONY. Is there such a one?

SECOND MESSENGER. He stays upon your will.

ANTONY. Let him appear.

[Exit second Messenger.]

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in dotage.

Enter another Messenger with a letter.

What are you?

THIRD MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife is dead.

ANTONY. Where died she?

THIRD MESSENGER. In Sicyon: Her length of sickness, with what else more serious Importeth thee to know, this bears.

[Gives a letter.]

ANTONY. Forbear me.

[Exit third Messenger.]

There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it. What our contempts doth often hurl from us, We wish it ours again. The present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone. The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on. I must from this enchanting queen break off. Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!

Enter Enobarbus.

ENOBARBUS. What’s your pleasure, sir?

ANTONY. I must with haste from hence.

ENOBARBUS. Why then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.

ANTONY. I must be gone.

ENOBARBUS. Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing, though, between them and a great cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly. I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

ANTONY. She is cunning past man’s thought.

ENOBARBUS. 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 almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

ANTONY. Would I had never seen her!

ENOBARBUS. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.

ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS. Sir?

ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS. Fulvia?

ANTONY. Dead.

ENOBARBUS. 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 crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

ANTONY. The business she hath broached in the state Cannot endure my absence.

ENOBARBUS. And the business you have broached here cannot be without you, especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.

ANTONY. 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 leave 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 Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, Whose love is never linked 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’ th’ world may danger. Much is breeding Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure To such whose place is under us, requires Our quick remove from hence.

ENOBARBUS. I shall do’t.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene III — Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas and Iras.

CLEOPATRA. Where is he?

CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.

CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who’s with him, what he does. I did not send you. If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.

[Exit Alexas.]

CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him.

CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not?

CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.

CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.

CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear. In time we hate that which we often fear. But here comes Antony.

Enter Antony.

CLEOPATRA. I am sick and sullen.

ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—

CLEOPATRA. Help me away, dear Charmian! I shall fall. It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature Will not sustain it.

ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen—

CLEOPATRA. Pray you, stand farther from me.

ANTONY. What’s the matter?

CLEOPATRA. I know by that same eye there’s some good news. What, says the married woman you may go? Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here. I have no power upon you; hers you are.

ANTONY. The gods best know—

CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first I saw the treasons planted.

ANTONY. Cleopatra—

CLEOPATRA. 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!

ANTONY. Most sweet queen—

CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going, But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying, Then was the time for words. No going then, Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven. They are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, Art turned the greatest liar.

ANTONY. How now, lady!

CLEOPATRA. I would I had thy inches, thou shouldst know There were a heart in Egypt.

ANTONY. Hear me, queen: The strong necessity of time commands Our services awhile, but my full heart Remains in use with you. Our Italy Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius Makes his approaches to the port of Rome; Equality of two domestic powers Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength, Are newly grown to love; the condemned Pompey, Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace Into the hearts of such as have not thrived Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten; And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge By any desperate change. My more particular, And that which most with you should safe my going, Is Fulvia’s death.

CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?

ANTONY. She’s dead, my queen. Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read The garboils she awaked; at the last, best, See when and where she died.

CLEOPATRA. O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, In Fulvia’s death how mine received shall be.

ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, As you shall give th’ advice. By the fire That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war As thou affects.

CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace, Charmian, come! But let it be; I am quickly ill and well, So Antony loves.

ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear, And give true evidence to his love, which stands An honourable trial.

CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me. I prithee, turn aside and weep for her, Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling, and let it look Like perfect honour.

ANTONY. You’ll heat my blood. No more.

CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet, but this is meetly.

ANTONY. Now, by my sword—

CLEOPATRA. And target. Still he mends. But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe.

ANTONY. I’ll leave you, lady.

CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word. Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it; Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it; That you know well. Something it is I would— O, my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten.

ANTONY. But that your royalty Holds idleness your subject, I should take you For idleness itself.

CLEOPATRA. ’Tis sweating labour To bear such idleness so near the heart As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me, Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strewed before your feet!

ANTONY. Let us go. Come. Our separation so abides and flies That thou, residing here, goes yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away!

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene IV — Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House

Enter Octavius [Caesar], Lepidus and their train.

CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know, It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate Our great competitor. From Alexandria This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or Vouchsafed to think he had partners. You shall find there A man who is the abstract of all faults That all men follow.

LEPIDUS. I must not think there are Evils enough to darken all his goodness. His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary Rather than purchased; what he cannot change Than what he chooses.

CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it is not Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy, To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit And keep the turn of tippling with a slave, To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him— As his composure must be rare indeed Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony No way excuse his foils when we do bear So great weight in his lightness. If he filled His vacancy with his voluptuousness, Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones Call on him for’t. But to confound such time That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience to their present pleasure And so rebel to judgment.

Enter a Messenger.

LEPIDUS. Here’s more news.

MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done, and every hour, Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea, And it appears he is beloved of those That only have feared Caesar. To the ports The discontents repair, and men’s reports Give him much wronged.

CAESAR. I should have known no less. It hath been taught us from the primal state That he which is was wished until he were, And the ebbed man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love, Comes deared by being lacked. This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion.

Enter a second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads They make in Italy—the borders maritime Lack blood to think on’t—and flush youth revolt. No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more Than could his war resisted.

CAESAR. Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink The stale of horses and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign The roughest berry on the rudest hedge. Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh Which some did die to look on. And all this— It wounds thine honour that I speak it now— Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek So much as lanked not.

LEPIDUS. ’Tis pity of him.

CAESAR. Let his shames quickly Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain Did show ourselves i’ th’ field, and to that end Assemble we immediate council. Pompey Thrives in our idleness.

LEPIDUS. Tomorrow, Caesar, I shall be furnished to inform you rightly Both what by sea and land I can be able To front this present time.

CAESAR. Till which encounter It is my business too. Farewell.

LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, To let me be partaker.

CAESAR. Doubt not, sir. I knew it for my bond.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene V — Alexandria. A Room in the Palace

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.

CLEOPATRA. Charmian!

CHARMIAN. Madam?

CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora.

CHARMIAN. Why, madam?

CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

CHARMIAN. You think of him too much.

CLEOPATRA. O, ’tis treason!

CHARMIAN. Madam, I trust not so.

CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian!

MARDIAN. What’s your highness’ pleasure?

CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee That, being unseminared, thy freer thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?

MARDIAN. Yes, gracious madam.

CLEOPATRA. Indeed?

MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing But what indeed is honest to be done. Yet have I fierce affections, and think What Venus did with Mars.

CLEOPATRA. 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 Caesar, 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.

Enter Alexas.

ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

CLEOPATRA. 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?

ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear queen, He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses— This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence.

ALEXAS. “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 neighed so high that what I would have spoke Was beastly dumbed by him.

CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?

ALEXAS. Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.

CLEOPATRA. 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 seemed 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.—Met’st thou my posts?

ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers. Why do you send so thick?

CLEOPATRA. 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 Caesar so?

CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!

CLEOPATRA. Be choked with such another emphasis! Say “the brave Antony.”

CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar!

CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men.

CHARMIAN. By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you.

CLEOPATRA. 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.]

Act II, Scene I — Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house

Enter Pompey, Menecrates and Menas in warlike manner.

POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men.

MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey, That what they do delay they not deny.

POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays The thing we sue for.

MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

POMPEY. I shall do well. The people love me, and the sea is mine; My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope Says it will come to th’ full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flattered; but he neither loves Nor either cares for him.

MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.

POMPEY. Where have you this? ’Tis false.

MENAS. From Silvius, sir.

POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together, Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip! Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both; Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts; Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe’d dullness—

Enter Varrius.

How now, Varrius!

VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected. Since he went from Egypt ’tis A space for farther travel.

POMPEY. I could have given less matter A better ear.—Menas, I did not think This amorous surfeiter would have donned his helm For such a petty war. His soldiership Is twice the other twain. But let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck The ne’er lust-wearied Antony.

MENAS. I cannot hope Caesar and Antony shall well greet together. His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar; His brother warred upon him, although I think, Not moved by Antony.

POMPEY. I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were’t not that we stand up against them all, ’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves, For they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords. But how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The petty difference, we yet not know. Be’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene II — Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus

Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus.

LEPIDUS. Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed, And shall become you well, to entreat your captain To soft and gentle speech.

ENOBARBUS. I shall entreat him To answer like himself. If Caesar move him, Let Antony look over Caesar’s head And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, I would not shave’t today.

LEPIDUS. ’Tis not a time For private stomaching.

ENOBARBUS. Every time Serves for the matter that is then born in’t.

LEPIDUS. But small to greater matters must give way.

ENOBARBUS. Not if the small come first.

LEPIDUS. Your speech is passion; But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes The noble Antony.

Enter Antony and Ventidius.

ENOBARBUS. And yonder Caesar.

Enter Caesar, Maecenas and Agrippa.

ANTONY. If we compose well here, to Parthia. Hark, Ventidius.

CAESAR. I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.

LEPIDUS. Noble friends, That which combined us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss, May it be gently heard. When we debate Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners, The rather for I earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor curstness grow to th’ matter.

ANTONY. ’Tis spoken well. Were we before our armies, and to fight, I should do thus.

CAESAR. Welcome to Rome.

ANTONY. Thank you.

CAESAR. Sit.

ANTONY. Sit, sir.

CAESAR. Nay, then.

ANTONY. I learn you take things ill which are not so, Or being, concern you not.

CAESAR. I must be laughed at If, or for nothing or a little, I Should say myself offended, and with you Chiefly i’ th’ world; more laughed at that I should Once name you derogately when to sound your name It not concerned me.

ANTONY. My being in Egypt, Caesar, What was’t to you?

CAESAR. No more than my residing here at Rome Might be to you in Egypt. Yet if you there Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt Might be my question.

ANTONY. How intend you, practised?

CAESAR. You may be pleased to catch at mine intent By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother Made wars upon me, and their contestation Was theme for you; you were the word of war.

ANTONY. You do mistake your business. My brother never Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it, And have my learning from some true reports That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather Discredit my authority with yours, And make the wars alike against my stomach, Having alike your cause? Of this my letters Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel, As matter whole you have not to make it with, It must not be with this.

CAESAR. You praise yourself By laying defects of judgment to me; but You patched up your excuses.

ANTONY. Not so, not so. I know you could not lack—I am certain on’t— Very necessity of this thought, that I, Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought, Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another. The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.

ENOBARBUS. Would we had all such wives, that the men Might go to wars with the women.

ANTONY. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar, Made out of her impatience—which not wanted Shrewdness of policy too—I grieving grant Did you too much disquiet. For that you must But say I could not help it.

CAESAR. I wrote to you When rioting in Alexandria; you Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts Did gibe my missive out of audience.

ANTONY. Sir, He fell upon me ere admitted, then. Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want Of what I was i’ th’ morning. But next day I told him of myself, which was as much As to have asked him pardon. Let this fellow Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, Out of our question wipe him.

CAESAR. You have broken The article of your oath, which you shall never Have tongue to charge me with.

LEPIDUS. Soft, Caesar!

ANTONY. No, Lepidus, let him speak. The honour is sacred which he talks on now, Supposing that I lacked it. But on, Caesar: The article of my oath?

CAESAR. To lend me arms and aid when I required them, The which you both denied.

ANTONY. Neglected, rather; And then when poisoned hours had bound me up From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may I’ll play the penitent to you. But mine honesty Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power Work without it. Truth is that Fulvia, To have me out of Egypt, made wars here, For which myself, the ignorant motive, do So far ask pardon as befits mine honour To stoop in such a case.

LEPIDUS. ’Tis noble spoken.

MAECENAS. If it might please you to enforce no further The griefs between ye; to forget them quite Were to remember that the present need Speaks to atone you.

LEPIDUS. Worthily spoken, Maecenas.

ENOBARBUS. Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again. You shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.

ANTONY. Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.

ENOBARBUS. That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

ANTONY. You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

ENOBARBUS. Go to, then. Your considerate stone!

CAESAR. I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech; for’t cannot be We shall remain in friendship, our conditions So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge O’ th’ world I would pursue it.

AGRIPPA. Give me leave, Caesar.

CAESAR. Speak, Agrippa.

AGRIPPA. Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side, Admired Octavia. Great Mark Antony Is now a widower.

CAESAR. Say not so, Agrippa. If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof Were well deserved of rashness.

ANTONY. I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear Agrippa further speak.

AGRIPPA. To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men; Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. By this marriage All little jealousies, which now seem great, And all great fears, which now import their dangers, Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales, Where now half-tales be truths. Her love to both Would each to other, and all loves to both, Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke, For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, By duty ruminated.

ANTONY. Will Caesar speak?

CAESAR. Not till he hears how Antony is touched With what is spoke already.

ANTONY. What power is in Agrippa, If I would say “Agrippa, be it so,” To make this good?

CAESAR. The power of Caesar, and His power unto Octavia.

ANTONY. May I never To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand. Further this act of grace; and from this hour The heart of brothers govern in our loves And sway our great designs!

CAESAR. There’s my hand. A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother Did ever love so dearly. Let her live To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never Fly off our loves again!

LEPIDUS. Happily, amen!

ANTONY. I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey, For he hath laid strange courtesies and great Of late upon me. I must thank him only, Lest my remembrance suffer ill report; At heel of that, defy him.

LEPIDUS. Time calls upon ’s. Of us must Pompey presently be sought, Or else he seeks out us.

ANTONY. Where lies he?

CAESAR. About the Mount Misena.

ANTONY. What is his strength by land?

CAESAR. Great and increasing; but by sea He is an absolute master.

ANTONY. So is the fame. Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it. Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we The business we have talked of.

CAESAR. With most gladness, And do invite you to my sister’s view, Whither straight I’ll lead you.

ANTONY. Let us, Lepidus, not lack your company.

LEPIDUS. Noble Antony, not sickness should detain me.

[Flourish. Exeunt all except Enobarbus, Agrippa and Maecenas.]

MAECENAS. Welcome from Egypt, sir.

ENOBARBUS. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas! My honourable friend, Agrippa!

AGRIPPA. Good Enobarbus!

MAECENAS. We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in Egypt.

ENOBARBUS. Ay, sir, we did sleep day out of countenance and made the night light with drinking.

MAECENAS. Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there. Is this true?

ENOBARBUS. This was but as a fly by an eagle. We had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.

MAECENAS. She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.

ENOBARBUS. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart upon the river of Cydnus.

AGRIPPA. There she appeared indeed, or my reporter devised well for her.

ENOBARBUS. I will tell you. The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue, O’erpicturing that Venus where we see The fancy outwork nature. On each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did.

AGRIPPA. O, rare for Antony!

ENOBARBUS. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i’ th’ eyes, And made their bends adornings. At the helm A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her, and Antony, Enthroned i’ th’ market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to th’ air, which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature.

AGRIPPA. Rare Egyptian!

ENOBARBUS. Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, Invited her to supper. She replied It should be better he became her guest, Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak, Being barbered ten times o’er, goes to the feast, And, for his ordinary, pays his heart For what his eyes eat only.

AGRIPPA. Royal wench! She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. He ploughed her, and she cropped.

ENOBARBUS. I saw her once Hop forty paces through the public street And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, That she did make defect perfection, And, breathless, pour breath forth.

MAECENAS. Now Antony must leave her utterly.

ENOBARBUS. Never. He will not. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.

MAECENAS. If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle The heart of Antony, Octavia is A blessed lottery to him.

AGRIPPA. Let us go. Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest Whilst you abide here.

ENOBARBUS. Humbly, sir, I thank you.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene III — Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House

Enter Antony, Caesar, Octavia between them.

ANTONY. The world and my great office will sometimes Divide me from your bosom.

OCTAVIA. All which time Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers To them for you.

ANTONY. Good night, sir.—My Octavia, Read not my blemishes in the world’s report. I have not kept my square, but that to come Shall all be done by th’ rule. Good night, dear lady.

OCTAVIA. Good night, sir.

CAESAR. Good night.

[Exeunt Caesar and Octavia.]

Enter Soothsayer.

ANTONY. Now, sirrah, you do wish yourself in Egypt?

SOOTHSAYER. Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither!

ANTONY. If you can, your reason.

SOOTHSAYER. I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue. But yet hie you to Egypt again.

ANTONY. Say to me, Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or mine?

SOOTHSAYER. Caesar’s. Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side. Thy dæmon—that thy spirit which keeps thee—is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, Where Caesar’s is not. But near him, thy angel Becomes afeard, as being o’erpowered. Therefore Make space enough between you.

ANTONY. Speak this no more.

SOOTHSAYER. To none but thee; no more but when to thee. If thou dost play with him at any game, Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck He beats thee ’gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit Is all afraid to govern thee near him; But, he away, ’tis noble.

ANTONY. Get thee gone. Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.

[Exit Soothsayer.]

He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap, He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him, And in our sports my better cunning faints Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds; His cocks do win the battle still of mine When it is all to naught, and his quails ever Beat mine, inhooped, at odds. I will to Egypt: And though I make this marriage for my peace, I’ th’ East my pleasure lies.

Enter Ventidius.

O, come, Ventidius, You must to Parthia. Your commission’s ready. Follow me and receive ’t.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene IV — Rome. A street

Enter Lepidus, Maecenas and Agrippa.

LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten Your generals after.

AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.

LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress, Which will become you both, farewell.

MAECENAS. We shall, As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount Before you, Lepidus.

LEPIDUS. Your way is shorter; My purposes do draw me much about. You’ll win two days upon me.

BOTH. Sir, good success!

LEPIDUS. Farewell.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene V — Alexandria. A Room in the Palace

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, Alexas.

CLEOPATRA. Give me some music—music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

ALL. The music, ho!

Enter Mardian, the eunuch.

CLEOPATRA. Let it alone. Let’s to billiards. Come, Charmian.

CHARMIAN. My arm is sore. Best play with Mardian.

CLEOPATRA. As well a woman with an eunuch played As with a woman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir?

MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam.

CLEOPATRA. And when good will is showed, though’t come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now. Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river. There, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws, and as I draw them up I’ll think them every one an Antony, And say “Ah, ha! You’re caught.”

CHARMIAN. ’Twas merry when You wagered on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.

CLEOPATRA. That time?—O times!— I laughed him out of patience; and that night I laughed him into patience, and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan.

Enter Messenger.

O! from Italy! Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren.

MESSENGER. Madam, madam—

CLEOPATRA. Antony’s dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill’st thy mistress. But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss, a hand that kings Have lipped, and trembled kissing.

MESSENGER. First, madam, he’s well.

CLEOPATRA. Why, there’s more gold. But sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat.

MESSENGER. Good madam, hear me.

CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will. But there’s no goodness in thy face if Antony Be free and healthful. So tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings! If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crowned with snakes, Not like a formal man.

MESSENGER. Will’t please you hear me?

CLEOPATRA. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st. Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I’ll set thee in a shower of gold and hail Rich pearls upon thee.

MESSENGER. Madam, he’s well.

CLEOPATRA. Well said.

MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar.

CLEOPATRA. Th’ art an honest man.

MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

CLEOPATRA. Make thee a fortune from me.

MESSENGER. But yet, madam—

CLEOPATRA. I do not like “But yet”, it does allay The good precedence. Fie upon “But yet”! “But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st, free.

MESSENGER. Free, madam? No. I made no such report. He’s bound unto Octavia.

CLEOPATRA. For what good turn?

MESSENGER. For the best turn i’ th’ bed.

CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian.

MESSENGER. Madam, he’s married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

[Strikes him down.]

MESSENGER. Good madam, patience.

CLEOPATRA. What say you?

[Strikes him again.]

Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head!

[She hales him up and down.]

Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle.

MESSENGER. Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match.

CLEOPATRA. Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg.

MESSENGER. He’s married, madam.

CLEOPATRA. Rogue, thou hast lived too long.

[Draws a knife.]

MESSENGER. Nay then I’ll run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

[Exit.]

CHARMIAN. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself. The man is innocent.

CLEOPATRA. Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again. Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!

CHARMIAN. He is afeard to come.

CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him.

[Exit Charmian.]

These hands do lack nobility that they strike A meaner than myself, since I myself Have given myself the cause.

Enter the Messenger again with Charmian.

Come hither, sir. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.

MESSENGER. I have done my duty.

CLEOPATRA. Is he married? I cannot hate thee worser than I do If thou again say “Yes.”

MESSENGER. He’s married, madam.

CLEOPATRA. The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still!

MESSENGER. Should I lie, madam?

CLEOPATRA. O, I would thou didst, So half my Egypt were submerged and made A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence. Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?

MESSENGER. I crave your highness’ pardon.

CLEOPATRA. He is married?

MESSENGER. Take no offence that I would not offend you. To punish me for what you make me do Seems much unequal. He’s married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA. O, that his fault should make a knave of thee That art not what thou’rt sure of! Get thee hence! The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand, And be undone by ’em!

[Exit Messenger.]

CHARMIAN. Good your highness, patience.

CLEOPATRA. In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.

CHARMIAN. Many times, madam.

CLEOPATRA. I am paid for’t now. Lead me from hence; I faint. O Iras, Charmian! ’Tis no matter. Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination; let him not leave out The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.

[Exit Alexas.]

Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian. Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way ’s a Mars. [To Mardian] Bid you Alexas Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

[Exeunt.]