It is not Cæsar's natural vice to hate This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes More womanly than he hardly gave audience, or there A man who is the abstract of all faults That all men follow. Lepidus. I must not think there are Evils enow to darken all his goodness: His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven, Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change, Cæs. You are too indulgent. Let us 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 Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones, Lep. Enter a Messenger. Here's more news. Mess. Thy biddings have been done; and every hour, Most noble Cæsar, shalt thou have report How 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea; And it appears he is belov'd of those Cæs. And the ebb'd man ne'er lov'd, till ne'er worth love, Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion. Mess. Cæsar, 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, Cæs. Leave thy lascivious wassails. Antony, When thou once Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more 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, Lep. 'Tis pity of him. Cas. Let his shames quickly Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain Did show ourselves i' th' field; and, to that end, Lep. To-morrow, Cæsar, I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly Cæs. Till which encounter, It is my business too. Farewell. Lep. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, To let me be partaker. Cas. Doubt not, sir; I knew it for my bond. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN. Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap of time Cleo. Not now to hear thee sing: I take no pleasure In aught an eunuch has. 'Tis well for thee, That, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections? Mar. Yes, gracious madam. Cleo. Mar. Indeed ? Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing, But what in deed is honest to be done; Yet have I fierce affections, and think Cleo. 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? Would stand, and make his eyes grow in my brow: There would he anchor his aspect, and die With looking on his life. Alex. Enter ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail! Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony; Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath With his tinct gilded thee. How goes it with my brave Mark Antony? Alex. Last thing he did, dear Queen, He kiss❜d, the last of many doubled kisses, This orient pearl: his speech sticks in my heart. Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence. Alex. Good friend, quoth he, "the firm Roman to great Egypt sends This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, Say, 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-girt steed, Who neigh'd so high, that what I would have spoke Was beastly dumb'd by him. Cleo. What! was he sad, or merry? Alex. Like to the time o' th' year between th' ex tremes Of hot and cold: he was nor sad, nor merry. |