Vent. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.

Ant. After this, I need not tell his name;—­’twas Dolabella.

Vent. He’s now in Caesar’s camp.

Ant. No matter where,
Since he’s no longer mine.  He took unkindly,
That I forbade him Cleopatra’s sight,
Because I feared he loved her:  he confest,
He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled;
For ’twere impossible that two, so one,
Should not have loved the same.  When he departed,
He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

Vent. It argues, that he loved you more than her, Else he had staid; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend:  I know he loves you.

Ant. I should have seen him, then, ere now.

Vent. Perhaps He has thus long been labouring for your peace.

Ant. Would he were here!

Vent. Would you believe he loved you? 
I read your answer in your eyes, you would. 
Not to conceal it longer, he has sent
A messenger from Caesar’s camp, with letters.

Ant. Let him appear.

Vent. I’ll bring him instantly.
                   [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with
                    DOLABELLA.

Ant. ’Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship!
                                               [Runs to embrace him.
Art thou returned at last, my better half? 
Come, give me all myself! 
Let me not live,
If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,
Was ever half so fond.

Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busy
About a noble work:  she’s new come home,
Like a long-absent man, and wanders o’er
Each room, a stranger to her own, to look
If all be safe.

Ant. Thou hast what’s left of me;
For I am now so sunk from what I was,
Thou find’st me at my lowest water-mark. 
The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,
Are all dried up, or take another course: 
What I have left is from my native spring;
I’ve still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,
And lifts me to my banks.

Dola. Still you are lord of all the world to me.

Ant. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. 
If I had any joy when thou wert absent,
I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed
Thee of thy part.  But, oh, my Dolabella! 
Thou hast beheld me other than I am. 
Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled
With sceptered slaves, who waited to salute me? 
With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,
To worship my uprising? menial kings
Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,
Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes,
And, at my least command, all started out,
Like racers to the goal[2].

Dola. Slaves to your fortune.