Cleo. Can I do this?  Ah, no; my love’s so true,
That I can neither hide it where it is,
Nor show it where it is not.  Nature meant me
A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove,
Fond without art, and kind without deceit;
But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me,
Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished
Of falsehood to be happy.

Alex. Force yourself. 
The event will be, your lover will return,
Doubly desirous to possess the good,
Which once he feared to lose.

Cleo. I must attempt it; But oh with what regret! [Exit ALEX. She comes up to DOLABELLA.

Vent. So, now the scene draws near; they’re in my reach.

Cleo. [To DOL.]
Discoursing with my women! might not I
Share in your entertainment?

Char. You have been The subject of it, madam.

Cleo. How! and how?

Iras. Such praises of your beauty!

Cleo. Mere poetry.  Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.

Dola. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt;
Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: 
I, who have seen—­had I been born a poet,
Should choose a nobler name.

Cleo. You flatter me. 
But, ’tis your nation’s vice:  All of your country
Are flatterers, and all false.  Your friend’s like you. 
I’m sure, he sent you not to speak these words.

Dola. No, madam; yet he sent me—­

Cleo. Well, he sent you—­

Dola. Of a less pleasing errand.

Cleo. How less pleasing?  Less to yourself, or me?

Dola. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.

Cleo. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.—­ Hold up my spirits. [Aside.]—­Well, now your mournful matter; For I’m prepared, perhaps can guess it too.

Dola. I wish you would; for ’tis a thankless office, To tell ill news:  And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you.

Cleo. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should.

Vent. Most delicate advances! woman! woman!  Dear, damned, inconstant sex!

Cleo. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is’t not so?

Dola. I wish I could not answer to that question.

Cleo. Then pass it o’er, because it troubles you: 
I should have been more grieved another time. 
Next, I’m to lose my kingdom—­farewell, Egypt. 
Yet, is there any more?

Dola. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.

Cleo. No, no, I’m not run mad; I can bear fortune: 
And love may be expelled by other love,
As poisons are by poisons.

Dola. You o’erjoy me, madam,
To find your griefs so moderately borne. 
You’ve heard the worst; all are not false like him.