Vent. Yes, to your shame be’t spoken. [Aside.

Ant. How I loved,
Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours,
That danced away with down upon your feet,
As all your business were to count my passion! 
One day past by, and nothing saw but love;
Another came, and still ’twas only love: 
The suns were wearied out with looking on,
And I untired with loving. 
I saw you every day, and all the day;
And every day was still but as the first,
So eager was I still to see you more.

Vent. ’Tis all too true.

Ant. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,
As she indeed had reason; raised a war
In Italy, to call me back.

Vent. But yet You went not.

Ant. While within your arms I lay, The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp—­I thank your love for’t.

Vent. Well pushed:  that last was home.

Cleo. Yet may I speak?

Ant. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. 
Your silence says, I have not.  Fulvia died;
(Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died.)
To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,
This Caesar’s sister; in her pride of youth,
And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady,
Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her. 
You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: 
This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours. 
I would have fought by land, where I was stronger;
You hindered it:  yet, when I fought at sea,
Forsook me fighting; and (Oh stain to honour! 
Oh lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled;
But fled to follow you.

Vent. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails! 
And, to appear magnificent in flight,
Drew half our strength away.

Ant. All this you caused. 
And, would you multiply more ruins on me? 
This honest man, my best, my only friend,
Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes;
Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits,
And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes
To seize them too.  If you have aught to answer,
Now speak, you have free leave.

Alex. [Aside.] She stands confounded:  Despair is in her eyes.

Vent. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage:  Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; ’Tis like they shall be sold.

Cleo. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,
Already have condemned me? shall I bring
The love you bore me for my advocate? 
That now is turned against me, that destroys me;
For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten;
But oftener sours to hate:  ’twill please my lord
To ruin me, and therefore I’ll be guilty. 
But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you,
That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes
Into my faults, severe to my destruction,
And watching all advantages with care,
That serve to make me wretched?  Speak, my lord,
For I end here.  Though I deserve this usage,
Was it like you to give it?