Cleo. With how much ease believe we what we wish! 
Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty,
I have contributed, and too much love
Has made me guilty too. 
The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned,
To call back fleeting love by jealousy;
But ’twould not last.  Oh, rather let me lose,
Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.

Dola. I find your breast fenced round from human reach,
Transparent as a rock of solid crystal;
Seen through, but never pierced.  My friend, my friend! 
What endless treasure hast thou thrown away;
And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean,
Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!

Cleo. Could you not beg
An hour’s admittance to his private ear? 
Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds;
And yet foreknows no hospitable inn
Is near to succour hunger,
Eats his fill, before his painful march: 
So would I feed a while my famished eyes
Before we part; for I have far to go,
If death be far, and never must return.

  VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, behind.

Vent. From hence you may discover—­Oh, sweet, sweet!  Would you indeed? the pretty hand in earnest?

Dola. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand.
Draw it not back,
’Tis all I e’er will beg.

Vent. They turn upon us.

Octav. What quick eyes has guilt!

Vent. Seem not to have observed them, and go on.

  They enter.

Dola. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius?

Vent. No.  I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.

Dola. Know you his business?

Vent. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar.

Dola. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLA. and CLEO.

Octav. Most glorious impudence!

Vent. She looked, methought,
As she would say,—­take your old man, Octavia;
Thank you, I’m better here.—­
Well, but what use
Make we of this discovery?

Octav. Let it die.

Vent. I pity Dolabella; but she’s dangerous: 
Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms,
To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence,
The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery;
And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day,
Unmarked of those that hear:  Then she’s so charming
Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: 
The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles;
And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity,
They bless her wanton eyes:  even I, who hate her,
With a malignant joy behold such beauty;
And, while I curse, desire it.  Antony
Must needs have some remains of passion still,
Which may ferment into a worse relapse,
If now not fully cured.  I know, this minute,
With Caesar he’s endeavouring her peace.