Ant. Caesar’s sister.

Octav. That’s unkind. 
Had I been nothing more than Caesar’s sister,
Know, I had still remained in Caesar’s camp: 
But your Octavia, your much injured wife,
Though banished from your bed, driven from your house,
In spite of Caesar’s sister, still is yours. 
’Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,
And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;
But a wife’s virtue still surmounts that pride. 
I come to claim you as my own; to show
My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: 
Your hand, my lord; ’tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking his hand.

Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv’st it.

Dola. On my soul,
And so she does:  she’s neither too submissive,
Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean
Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life.

Octav. Begged it, my lord?

Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

Octav. Poorly and basely I could never beg:  Nor could my brother grant.

Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,
Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down
And cry,—­forgive me, Caesar! shall I set
A man, my equal, in the place of Jove,
As he could give me being?  No; that word,
Forgive, would choke me up,
And die upon my tongue.

Dola. You shall not need it.

Ant. I will not need it.  Come, you’ve all betrayed me,—­
My friend too!—­to receive some vile conditions. 
My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears;
And now I must become her branded slave. 
In every peevish mood, she will upbraid
The life she gave:  if I but look awry,
She cries,—­I’ll tell my brother.

Octav. My hard fortune
Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. 
But the conditions I have brought are such,
You need not blush to take:  I love your honour,
Because ’tis mine; it never shall be said,
Octavia’s husband was her brother’s slave. 
Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loath;
For, though my brother bargains for your love,
Makes me the price and cement of your peace,
I have a soul like yours; I cannot take
Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. 
I’ll tell my brother we are reconciled;
He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march
To rule the East:  I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where.  I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble.

Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! } Both scorn to be obliged. }
}
Dola. O, she has touched him in the tenderest part; } See how he reddens with despite and shame, } Apart. To be out-done in generosity! }
}
Vent. See, how he winks! how he dries up a tear, } That fain would fall! }