Cleo. No; heaven forbid they should.

Dola. Some men are constant.

Cleo. And constancy deserves reward, that’s certain.

Dola. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope.

Vent. I’ll swear thou hast my leave.  I have enough:  But how to manage this!  Well, I’ll consider. [Exit.

Dola. I came prepared
To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought
Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: 
But you have met it with a cheerfulness,
That makes my task more easy; and my tongue,
Which on another’s message was employed,
Would gladly speak its own.

Cleo. Hold, Dolabella.  First tell me, were you chosen by my lord?  Or sought you this employment?

Dola. He picked me out; and, as his bosom-friend, He charged me with his words.

Cleo. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, depart.

Dola. Oh, you mistake:  He chose the harshest words;
With fiery eyes, and with contracted brows,
He coined his face in the severest stamp;
And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake;
He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing AEtna,
In sounds scarce human,—­Hence away for ever! 
Let her begone, the blot of my renown,
And bane of all my hopes!
                      [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems
                       more and more concerned, till she sinks quite
                       down.
Let her be driven, as far as men can think,
From man’s commerce! she’ll poison to the center.

Cleo. Oh, I can bear no more!

Dola. Help, help:—­Oh wretch!  O cursed, cursed wretch!  What have I done!

Char. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.

Iras. Bend, bend her forward quickly.

Char. Heaven be praised, She comes again.

Cleo. O let him not approach me. 
Why have you brought me back to this loathed being,
The abode of falsehood, violated vows,
And injured love?  For pity, let me go;
For, if there be a place of long repose,
I’m sure I want it.  My disdainful lord
Can never break that quiet; nor awake
The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb
Such words as fright her hence.—­Unkind, unkind!

Dola. Believe me, ’tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling.
That sure desires belief; I injured him: 
My friend ne’er spoke those words.  Oh, had you seen
How often he came back, and every time
With something more obliging and more kind,
To add to what he said; what dear farewells;
How almost vanquished by his love he parted,
And leaned to what unwillingly he left! 
I, traitor as I was, for love of you,
(But what can you not do, who made me false!)
I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels
This self-accused, self-punished criminal.