What, are the brothers parted?

They have dispatched with Pompey; he is gone.

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps

To part from Rome. Caesar is sad, and Lepidus,

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled

With the greensickness.

’Tis a noble Lepidus.

A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!

Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!

Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men.

What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.

Spake you of Caesar? How, the nonpareil!

O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!

Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”. Go no further.

Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.

But he loves Caesar best, yet he loves Antony.

Hoo! Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot

Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number—hoo!—

His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,

Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

Both he loves.

They are his shards, and he their beetle.

So,

This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.

Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.

No further, sir.

You take from me a great part of myself.

Use me well in’t. Sister, prove such a wife

As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest bond

Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,

Let not the piece of virtue which is set

Betwixt us, as the cement of our love

To keep it builded, be the ram to batter

The fortress of it. For better might we

Have loved without this mean, if on both parts

This be not cherished.

Make me not offended

In your distrust.

I have said.

You shall not find,

Though you be therein curious, the least cause

For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you,

And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends.

We will here part.

Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well.

The elements be kind to thee, and make

Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.

My noble brother!

The April’s in her eyes. It is love’s spring,

And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.

Sir, look well to my husband’s house, and—

What, Octavia?

I’ll tell you in your ear.

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can

Her heart inform her tongue—the swan’s-down feather,

That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,

And neither way inclines.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] Will Caesar weep?

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] He has a cloud in ’s face.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] He were the worse for that were he a horse;

So is he, being a man.

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] Why, Enobarbus,

When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,

He cried almost to roaring, and he wept

When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum;

What willingly he did confound he wailed,

Believe ’t, till I weep too.

No, sweet Octavia,

You shall hear from me still. The time shall not

Outgo my thinking on you.

Come, sir, come,

I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love.

Look, here I have you, thus I let you go,

And give you to the gods.

Adieu, be happy!

Let all the number of the stars give light

To thy fair way!

Farewell, farewell!

Farewell!