No better than a sty? O, see, my women,

Antony dies.

The crown o' th' earth doth melt. My lord!
O, wither'd is the garland of the war,

The soldier's pole is fall'n young boys and girls
Are level now with men; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.

No more; but e'en a woman, and commanded
By such poor passion as the maid that milks
And does the meanest chares. It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
To tell them that this world did equal theirs

Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but naught;
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that 's mad then is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death,

Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian! My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,

Our lamp is spent, it 's out! Good sirs, take heart: We'll bury him; and then, what 's brave, what 's noble, Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us.

Come, away:

This case of that huge spirit now is cold:

Ah, women, women! come; we have no friend

But resolution, and the briefest end.

Exeunt; those above bearing off Antony's body.