Vent. And, will you leave this—­

Ant. Pr’ythee, do not curse her,
And I will leave her; though, heaven knows, I love
Beyond life, conquest, empire; all, but honour: 
But I will leave her.

Vent. That’s my royal master; And, shall we fight?

Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier. 
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron;
And at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud—­Come, follow me!

Vent. O now I hear my emperor! in that word
Octavius fell.  Gods, let me see that day,
And, if I have ten years behind, take all: 
I’ll thank you for the exchange.

Ant. Oh, Cleopatra!

Vent. Again?

Ant. I’ve done:  In that last sigh, she went.  Caesar shall know what ’tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear.

Vent. Methinks, you breathe Another soul:  Your looks are more divine; You speak a hero, and you move a god.

Ant. O, thou hast fired me; my soul’s up in arms,
And mans each part about me:  Once again,
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;
That eagerness, with which I darted upward
To Cassius’ camp:  In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield;
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour!

Ant. Come on, my soldier! 
Our hearts and arms are still the same:  I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like time and death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage,
  And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield,
  Begin the noble harvest of the field. [Exeunt.

ACT II.  SCENE I.

  Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS.

Cleo. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn?  Ventidius has o’ercome, and he will go.

Alex. He goes to fight for you.

Cleo. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight:  Flatter me not:  If once he goes, he’s lost, And all my hopes destroyed.

Alex. Does this weak passion Become a mighty queen?

Cleo. I am no queen: 
Is this to be a queen, to be besieged
By yon insulting Roman, and to wait
Each hour the victor’s chain?  These ills are small;
For Antony is lost, and I can mourn
For nothing else but him.  Now come, Octavius,
I have no more to lose; prepare thy bands;
I’m fit to be a captive:  Antony
Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave.

Iras. Call reason to assist you.