Alex. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward,
With ardour too heroic, on his foes,
Fall down, as she would do, before his feet;
Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death;
Tell him, this god is not invulnerable;
That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him;
And, that you may remember her petition,
She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn,
Which, at your wisht return, she will redeem
                                    [Gives jewels to the Commanders.
With all the wealth of Egypt: 
This to the great Ventidius she presents,
Whom she can never count her enemy,
Because he loves her lord.

Vent. Tell her, I’ll none on’t;
I’m not ashamed of honest poverty;
Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe
Ventidius from his faith.  I hope to see
These, and the rest of all her sparkling store,
Where they shall more deservingly be placed.

Ant. And who must wear them then?

Vent. The wronged Octavia.

Ant. You might have spared that word.

Vent. And he that bribe.

Ant. But have I no remembrance?

Alex. Yes, a dear one; Your slave, the queen—­

Ant. My mistress.

Alex. Then your mistress;
Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul,
But that you had long since; she humbly begs
This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts,
The emblems of her own, may bind your arm. [Presenting a bracelet.

Vent. Now, my best lord,—­in honour’s name, I ask you,
For manhood’s sake, and for your own dear safety,—­
Touch not these poisoned gifts,
Infected by the sender; touch them not;
Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them,
And more than aconite has dipt the silk.

Ant. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius: 
A lady’s favours may be worn with honour. 
What, to refuse her bracelet! on my soul,
When I lie pensive in my tent alone,
’Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights,
To tell these pretty beads upon my arm,
To count for every one a soft embrace,
A melting kiss at such and such a time;
And now and then the fury of her love,
When—­And what harm’s in this?

Alex. None, none, my lord, But what’s to her, that now ’tis past for ever.

Ant. [Going to tie it.] We soldiers are so awkward—­help me tie it.

Alex. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward
In these affairs:  so are all men indeed: 
Even I, who am not one.  But shall I speak?

Ant. Yes, freely.

Alex. Then, my lord, fair hands alone Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it, can.

Vent. Hell, death! this eunuch pandar ruins you.  You will not see her? [ALEXAS whispers an Attendant, who goes out.

Ant. But to take my leave.