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But when he meant to quail* and shake the orb,
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas,
That grew the more by reaping: His delights
Were dolphin-like; they show'd his back above
The element they lived in: In his livery

Walk'd crowns, and crownets; realms and islands


As platest dropp'd from his pocket.


How poor an instrument

May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty.
My resolution's plac'd, and I have nothing
Of woman in me: Now from head to foot

I am marble-constant: now the fleeting moon
No planet is of mine.


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Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me: Now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:-
Yare, yare,§ good Iras; quick.-Methinks, I hear
Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Cesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath: Husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire, and air; my other elements

I give to baser life.-So,-have you done?
Come, then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian;-Iras, long farewell.
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?

If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell❜st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I


* Crush.

+ Silver money.

+ Inconstant.

¿ Make haste.


The gods themselves do weep!


This proves me base:

If she first meet the curled Antony,

He'll make demands of her; and spend that kiss,
Which is my heaven to have. Come, mortal wretch,
[To the asp, which she applies to her breast.
With thy sharp teeth, this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool,

Be angry, and despatch. O, could'st thou speak!
That I might hear thee call great Cesar, ass



O eastern star!

Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep?

O, break! O, break.
Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,-
O Antony!-Nay, I will take thee too:-

[Applying another asp

to her arm. What should I stay-- [Falls on a bed, and dies. Char. In this wild world?-So, fare thee well.— Now boast thee, death! in thy possession lies A lass unparallel'd.




WHAT would you have, you curs,

That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you,
The other makes you proud. He that trusts you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: You are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,

Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,

To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves great


*Unpolitic to leave me to myself.

Deserves your hate.

and your

affections are

A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,

And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye?

With every minute you do change a mind;
And call him noble, that was now your hate,
Him vile, that was your garland.


Methinks, I hear hither your husband's drum;
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair;
As children from a bear, the Volces shunning him:
Methinks, I see him stamp thus, and call thus,—
Come on you cowards, you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome: His bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes;
Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.

Vir. His bloody brow! O, Jupiter, no blood! Vol. Away, you fool! it more becomes a man, Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood At Grecian swords contending.


Pray, now, no more: my mother,

Who has a charter* to extol her blood,

When she does praise me, grieves me. I have done,

As you have done; that's what I can; induc'd

As you have been; that's for my country:

He, that has but effected his good will,

Hath overta'en mine act.


Nor sleep, nor sanctuary,

Being naked, sick: nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up

* Privilege.

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