“All is lost! 
This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.
...  Betray’d I am: 
O this false soul of Egypt!”

And with his ruin the ruin of his paramour was also settled; yet her resources were not utterly exhausted.  She retired into a castle or mausoleum she had prepared for herself in case of necessity, with her most valuable treasures, and sent messengers to Antony, who reported to him that she was dead,—­that she had killed herself in despair.  He believed it all.  His wrath now vanished in his grief.  He could not live, or did not wish to live, without her; and he fell upon his own sword.  The wound was mortal, but death did not immediately follow.  He lived to learn that Cleopatra had again deceived him,—­that she was still alive.  Even amid the agonies of the shadow of death, and in view of this last fatal lie of hers, he did not upbraid her, but ordered his servants to bear him to her retreat.  Covered with blood, the dying general was drawn up by ropes and through a window—­the only entrance to the queen’s retreat that was left unbarred—­into her presence, and soon expired.  Shakspeare has Antony greet Cleopatra with the words, “I am dying, Egypt, dying!” This suggestive theme has been enlarged in a modern song of pathetic eloquence:—­

     I am dying, Egypt, dying,
       Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
     And the dark Plutonian shadows
       Gather on the evening blast;
     Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,
       Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear,
     Listen to the great heart-secrets
       Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

* * * * *

     Should the base plebeian rabble
       Dare assail my name at Rome,
     Where my noble spouse Octavia
       Weeps within her widow’d home,
     Seek her; say the gods bear witness—­
       Altars, augurs, circling wings—­
     That her blood, with mine commingled,
       Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

     As for thee, star-ey’d Egyptian! 
       Glorious sorceress of the Nile! 
     Light the path to Stygian horrors
       With the splendors of thy smile
     I can scorn the Senate’s triumphs,
       Triumphing in love like thine.

* * * * *

     Ah! no more amid the battle
       Shall my heart exulting swell: 
     Isis and Osiris guard thee! 
       Cleopatra—­Rome—­farewell!

Thus perished the great Triumvir, dying like a Roman, whose blinded but persistent love, whatever were its elements, ever shall make his name memorable.  All the ages will point to him as a man who gave the world away for the caresses of a woman, and a woman who deceived and ruined him.

As for her,—­this selfish, heartless sorceress, gifted and beautiful as she was,—­what does she do when she sees her lover dead,—­dying for her?  Does she share his fate?  Not she.  What selfish woman ever killed herself for love?