Alex. Your emperor, Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

Vent. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest? 
He knows him not his executioner. 
O, she has decked his ruin with her love,
Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,
And made perdition pleasing:  She has left him
The blank of what he was;
I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him: 
Can any Roman see, and know him now,
Thus altered from the lord of half mankind,
Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman’s toy,
Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,
And crampt within a corner of the world? 
O, Antony! 
Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! 
Bounteous as nature; next to nature’s God! 
Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them,
As bounty were thy being:  rough in battle,
As the first Romans, when they went to war;
Yet, after victory, more pitiful
Than all their praying virgins left at home!

Alex. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues, His truth to her who loves him.

Vent. Would I could not! 
But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee? 
Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine,
Antony’s other fate.  Go, tell thy queen,
Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. 
Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone,
Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets. 
You dare not fight for Antony; go pray,
And keep your coward’s holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEX.  SERAP.

  Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY.

2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other.

Vent. Well, I dare.  But I’ll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humour drives:  the rest I’ll venture. [Withdraws.

  Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks.

Ant. They tell me, ’tis my birth-day, and I’ll keep it
With double pomp of sadness. 
’Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. 
Why was I raised the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward,
To be trod out by Caesar?

Vent. [Aside.] On my soul, ’Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

Ant. Count thy gains. 
Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this! 
Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth
Has starved thy wanting age.