Alex. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion
Stands not excused, but wholly justified. 
Her beauty’s charms alone, without her crown,
From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows
Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid
The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps,
To chuse where she would reign: 
She thought a Roman only could deserve her,
And, of all Romans, only Antony;
And, to be less than wife to you, disdained
Their lawful passion.

Ant. ’Tis but truth.

Alex. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert,
Have drawn her from the due regard of honour,
At last heaven opened her unwilling eyes
To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia,
Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. 
The sad effects of this improsperous war
Confirmed those pious thoughts.

Vent. [Aside.] O, wheel you there? 
Observe him now; the man begins to mend,
And talk substantial reason.—­Fear not, eunuch;
The emperor has given thee leave to speak.

Alex. Else had I never dared to offend his ears
With what the last necessity has urged
On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not
Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered.

Ant. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word!

Octav. Must I bear this?  Good heaven, afford me patience. [Aside.

Vent. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half man, proceed.

Alex. Yet Dolabella
Has loved her long; he, next my godlike lord,
Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion,
Rejected, as she is, by him she loved—­

Ant. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: 
Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all
The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand
Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes;
Then join thou too, and help to torture her!
                               [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.

Octav. ’Tis not well,
Indeed, my lord, ’tis much unkind to me,
To show this passion, this extreme concernment,
For an abandoned, faithless prostitute.

Ant. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered:  Leave me, I say.

Octav. My lord!

Ant. I bid you leave me.

Vent. Obey him, madam:  best withdraw a while.  And see how this will work.

Octav. Wherein have I offended you, my lord,
That I am bid to leave you?  Am I false,
Or infamous?  Am I a Cleopatra? 
Were I she,
Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you: 
But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses,
And fawn upon my falsehood.

Ant. ’Tis too much,
Too much, Octavia; I am prest with sorrows
Too heavy to be borne; and you add more: 
I would retire, and recollect what’s left
Of man within, to aid me.