Imatges de pÓgina

Enter another Meffenger, with a Letter.

Or lofe myself in dotage. What are you? 2 Mef. Fulvia thy wife is dead.

Ant. Where died fhe?

2 Mef. In Sicyon.

Her length of fickness, with what elfe more ferious Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives a Letter. [Exit fecond Meffenger.

Ant. Forbear me.

There's a great fpirit gone! Thus did I defire it.

What our contempts do often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again; the prefent pleasure,
By revolution lowring, does become

The oppofite of itfelf; fhe's good, being gone;
The hand could pluck her back, that fhov'd 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.

Eno. What's your pleasure, Sir?

Ant. I muft with hafte from hence.

Eno. Why, then we kill all our women; we fee, how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they fuffer our departure, death's the word.

Ant. I must be gone.

Eno. Under a compelling occafion, let women die. It were pity to caft them away for nothing; though be

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tween them and a great caufe, they fhould be efteem'd nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the leaft noife of this, dies inftantly; I have feen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment; I do think, there is mettle in death, which commits fome loving act upon her, fhe hath fuch a celerity in dying.


Ant. She is cunning paft man's thought.

Eno. Alack, Sir, no; her paffions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters, fighs and tears, they are greater forms and tempefts than almanacks can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, fhe makes a fhow'r of rain as well as Jove.

Ant. 'Would I had never feen her!

Eno. Oh, Sir, you had then left unfeen a wonderful piece of work, which, not to have been bleft withal, would have difcredited your travel.

Ant. Fulvia is dead.

Eno. Sir!

Ant. Fulvia is dead.
Eno. Fulvia?

Ant. Dead.

Eno. Why, Sir, give the Gods a thankful facrifice: when it pleaseth their Deities to take the wife of a man from him, 'it fhews 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 cafe were to be lamented; this grief is crowned with confolation, your old fmock brings forth a new


poorer moment;] For lefs rea. fon ; upon meaner motives.

it fhews to man the tailors of the earth, comforting therein, &c.] I have printed this after the original, which, though harsh and obfcure, I know not how to amend. Sir Tho. Hanmer reads,

They fhew to man the tailors of the earth comforting him therein. I think the paffage, with fome what lefs alteration, for alteration is always dangerous, may ftand thus; It fhews to men the tailers of the earth, comforting them, &c.


petticoat. And, indeed, the tears live in an onion that fhould water this forrow.

Ant. The bufinefs, the hath broached in the ftate, Cannot endure my abfence.

Eno. And the bufinefs, you have broach'd here, cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends on your abode.

Ant. No more light anfwers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpofe. I fhal 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 t' us; but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome 'Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius Hath giv❜n the dare to Cafar, and commands The Empire of the Sea. Our flipp'ry people, Whofe love is never link'd to the deferver, 'Till his deferts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his Dignities Upon his fon; who high in name and pow'r, Higher than both in blood and life, stands up For the main Soldier; whofe quality going on, The fides o' th' world may danger. Much is breeding; Which, like the courfer's hair, hath yet but life, And not a ferpent's poifon. Say our pleasure To fuch whofe places under us, require Our quick remove from hence.

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Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas, and Iras.

Cleo. Where is he?

Char. I did not fee him fince.

Cleo. See, where he is, who's with him, what he does.

9 I did not fend you.If you find him fad, Say, I am dancing; if in mirth, report, That I am fudden fick. Quick, and return.

Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,

You do not hold the method to enforce

The like from him.

Cleo. What fhould I do, I do not?

Char. In each thing give him way, crofs him in no


Cleo. Thou teacheft, like a fool, the way to lose


Char. Tempt him not fo, too far. I wifh for


In time we hate that which we often fear,

Enter Antony.

But here comes Antony.
Cleo. I'm fick, and fullen.

Such is this paffage in the first copy. The late editors have all altered it, or received it altered in filence thus:

Say, our pleasure, To fuch whofe place is under us, requires

Our quick remove from hence. This is hardly fenfe, I believe

we fhould read,

Their quick remove from bence. Tell our defign of going away to thofe, who being by their places obliged to attend us, muft remove in hafte.

9 I did not fend you.-] You must go as if you came without my order or knowledge. Ant.

Ant. I am forry to give breathing to my purpose. Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian, 1 fħall fall; It cannot be thus long, the fides of nature

Will not fuftain it.

Ant. Now, my dearest Queen,

[Seeming to faint.

Cleo. Pray you, ftand farther from me.
Ant. What's the matter?

Clea. I know, by that fame eye, there's fome good


What fays the marry'd woman?-You may go;
'Would, fhe had never given you leave to come!
Let her not fay, 'tis I that keep you here,
I have no pow'r upon you. Hers you are.
Ant. The Gods best know,

Cleo. O never was there Queen

So mightily betray'd; yet at the firft
I faw the treafons planted.

Ant. Cleopatra,

Cleo. Why fhould I think, you can be mine, and


Though you with fwearing fhake the throned Gods,
Who have been falfe to Fulvia? riotous madness
To be entangled with thefe mouth-made vows,
Which break themfelves in fwearing!

Ant. Moft fweet Queen,

Cleo. Nay, pray you, feek no colour for your going,

But bid farewel, and go: when you fued ftaying,
Then was the time for words; no going, then ;-
Eternity was in our lips and eyes,

Blifs in our Brows' bent, none our parts fo poor,
But was 'a race of heav'n. They are so still,

T-a race of heav'n.-] i. e. had a smack or flavour of heaven,

WARBURTON. This word is well explained

by Dr. Warburton; the race of wine is the tafte of the foil. Sir T. Hanmer, not understanding the word, reads, ray.

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