Ant. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword,

Dio. Lock'd in her monument. She had a pro

phesying fear

Of what hath come to pass: for when she saw
(Which never shall be found,) you did suspect
She had dispos'd with Cæsar, and that your rage
Would not be purg'd, she sent you word she was dead;
But, fearing since how it might work, hath sent

Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,

I dread, too late.

Ant. Too late, good Diomed:-Call my guard, I pr❜ythee.

Dio. What, ho! the emperor's guard! The guard, what, ho!

Come, your lord calls.

Enter some of the Guard.

Ant. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra

bides;

'Tis the last service that I shall command you.

1 Guard. Woe are we, sir, you may not live to

wear

All your true followers out.

All.

Most heavy day!

Ant. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp

fate

To grace it with your sorrows: bid that welcome
Which comes to punish us, and we punish it
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up:
I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,
And have
my thanks for all.

[Exeunt, bearing Antony.

SCENE XIII.

The Same. A Monument.

Enter above, CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, and IRAS.

Cleo. O Charmian, I will never go from hence.
Char. Be comforted, dear madam.

Cleo.
No, I will not:
All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great

Enter DIOMEDES.

As that which makes it.-How now? is he dead?

Dio. His death's upon him, but not dead. Look out o' the other side your monument, His guard have brought him thither.

Cleo.

Enter ANTONY, borne by the Guard.

O thou sun,

Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in!-darkling

stand

The varying shore o'the world!-O Antony!
Antony, Antony!-Charmian, help; help, Iras;
Help, friends below; let's draw him hither.

Ant.

Not Cæsar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,
But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself.

Cleo. So it should be, that none but Antony
Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so!
Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
I here impórtune death a while, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.-

(Dear my lord, pardon,) I dare not,

Lest I be taken: not the imperious show

Of the full-fortun'd Cæsar ever shall

Peace:

Be brooch'd with me 54; if knife, drugs, serpents,

have

Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe:

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes,

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour Demuring upon me.-But come, come, Antony,Help me, my women, we must draw thee up;― Assist, good friends.

Ant.

O, quick, or I am gone.

Cleo. Here's sport, indeed 55!-How heavy weighs my lord!

Our strength is all gone into heaviness,

That makes the weight: Had I great Juno's power,
The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,
And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little,-
Wishers were ever fools;-O, come, come, come;
[They draw Antony up:
And welcome, welcome! die, where thou hast liv'd:
Quicken with kissing; had my lips that power,
Thus would I wear them out.

All.

A heavy sight!

Ant. I am dying, Egypt, dying:

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
Cleo. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high,
That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel,
Provok'd by my

Ant.

offence.

One word, sweet queen:

Of Cæsar seek your honour, with your safety.—Q!

Cleo. They do not go together.

Ant.

Gentle, hear me:

None about Cæsar trust, but Proculeius.
Cleo. My resolution, and my hands, I'll trust;
None about Cæsar.

Ant. The miserable change now at my end,
Lament nor sorrow at: but please your thoughts,
In feeding them with those my former fortunes
Wherein I liv'd, the greatest prince o' the world,
The noblest and do now not basely die,
Nor cowardly; put off my helmet to

My countryman, a Roman, by a Roman

Valiantly vanquish'd. Now, my spirit is going;

I can no more.

Cleo.

Noblest of men, woo't die?

Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide

In this dull world, which in thy absence is

No better than a stye?-O, see, my women,
The crown o' the earth doth melt :-My lord!-
O, wither'd is the garland of the war,

[dies.

The soldier's pole is fallen; young boys, and girls,
Are level now with men: the odds is gone,

And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.

Char.

Iras. She is dead too, our sovereign.

Char.

Iras.

[She faints.

O, quietness, lady!

Lady,

Madam,

Royal Egypt!

Char. O madam, madam, madam!

Iras.

Empress!

Char. Peace, peace, Iras.

Cleo. No more, but e'en a woman; and com

manded

By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest chares.-It were for me
To throw my scepter at the injurious gods;
To tell them, that this world did equal theirs,
Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught;
Patience is sottish; and impatience does

Become a dog that's mad: Then is it sin,