Ant. By heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! 
The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks.—­Stop them, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death:  they set my shame,
That caused them, full before me.

Vent. I’ll do my best.

Ant. Sure there’s contagion in the tears of friends:  See, I have caught it too.  Believe me, ’tis not For my own griefs, but thine.—­Nay, father!

Vent. Emperor.

Ant. Emperor!  Why, that’s the style of victory;
The conqu’ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so:  but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

Vent. I warrant you.

Ant. Actium, Actium!  Oh!—­

Vent. It sits too near you.

Ant. Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams.—­

Vent. Out with it; give it vent.

Ant. Urge not my shame.  I lost a battle,—­

Vent. So has Julius done.

Ant. Thou favour’st me, and speak’st not half thou think’st; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly:  But Antony—­

Vent. Nay, stop not.

Ant. Antony,—­
Well, thou wilt have it,—­like a coward, fled,
Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius. 
Thou long’st to curse me, and I give thee leave. 
I know thou cam’st prepared to rail.

Vent. I did.

Ant. I’ll help thee.—­I have been a man, Ventidius.

Vent. Yes, and a brave one; but—­

Ant. I know thy meaning. 
But I have lost my reason, have disgraced
The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. 
In the full vintage of my flowing honours,
Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. 
Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,
And purple greatness met my ripened years. 
When first I came to empire, I was borne
On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
The wish of nations, and the willing world
Received me as its pledge of future peace;
I was so great, so happy, so beloved,
Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,
And worked against my fortune, chid her from me,
And turned her loose; yet still she came again. 
My careless days, and my luxurious nights,
At length have wearied her, and now she’s gone,
Gone, gone, divorced for ever.  Help me, soldier,
To curse this madman, this industrious fool,
Who laboured to be wretched:  Pr’ythee curse me.

Vent. No.

Ant. Why?

Vent. You are too sensible already
Of what you’ve done, too conscious of your failings;
And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first
To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. 
I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.