Nay, but this dotage of our general’s

O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,

That o’er the files and musters of the war

Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn

The office and devotion of their view

Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart,

Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst

The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper

And is become the bellows and the fan

To cool a gipsy’s lust.

Look where they come:

Take but good note, and you shall see in him

The triple pillar of the world transform’d

Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

News, my good lord, from Rome.

Grates me, the sum.

Nay, hear them, Antony.

Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows

If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent

His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this;

Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that.

Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”

How, my love?

Perchance! Nay, and most like.

You must not stay here longer; your dismission

Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.

Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both?

Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen,

Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine

Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame

When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch

Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.

Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life

Is to do thus [_Embracing_]; when such a mutual pair

And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,

On pain of punishment, the world to weet

We stand up peerless.

Excellent falsehood!

Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?

I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony

Will be himself.

But stirred by Cleopatra.

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,

Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh.

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch

Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?

Hear the ambassadors.

Fie, wrangling queen!

Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh,

To weep; whose every passion fully strives

To make itself, in thee fair and admired!

No messenger but thine, and all alone

Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note

The qualities of people. Come, my queen,

Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.

Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?

Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,

He comes too short of that great property

Which still should go with Antony.

I am full sorry

That he approves the common liar who

Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope

Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!