Alex. He loves her still: 
His grief betrays it.  Good! the joy to find
She’s yet alive, completes the reconcilement. 
I’ve saved myself, and her.  But, oh! the Romans! 
Fate comes too fast upon my wit,
Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [Aside.  Exit.

Vent. Would she had died a little sooner though! 
Before Octavia went, you might have treated: 
Now ’twill look tame, and would not be received. 
Come, rouse yourself, and let’s die warm together.

Ant. I will not fight:  there’s no more work for war.  The business of my angry hours is done.

Vent. Caesar is at your gates.

Ant. Why, let him enter; He’s welcome now.

Vent. What lethargy has crept into your soul?

Ant. ’Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire To free myself from bondage.

Vent. Do it bravely.

Ant. I will; but not by fighting.  O, Ventidius! 
What should I fight for now? my queen is dead. 
I was but great for her; my power, my empire,
Were but my merchandise to buy her love;
And conquered kings, my factors.  Now she’s dead,
Let Caesar, take the world,—­
An empty circle, since the jewel’s gone
Which made it worth my strife:  my being’s nauseous;
For all the bribes of life are gone away.

Vent. Would you be taken?

Ant. Yes, I would be taken;
But, as a Roman ought,—­dead, my Ventidius: 
For I’ll convey my soul from Caesar’s reach,
And lay down life myself.  ’Tis time the world
Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. 
We two have kept its homage in suspence,
And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod,
Till it was dented inwards.  Let him walk
Alone upon’t:  I’m weary of my part. 
My torch is out; and the world stands before me,
Like a black desert at the approach of night: 
I’ll lay me down, and stray no farther on.

Vent. I could be grieved,
But that I’ll not out-live you:  chuse your death;
For, I have seen him in such various shapes,
I care not which I take:  I’m only troubled,
The life I bear is worn to such a rag,
’Tis scarce worth giving.  I could wish, indeed,
We threw it from us with a better grace;
That, like two lions taken in the toils,
We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters that inclose us.

Ant. I have thought on it.  Ventidius, you must live.

Vent. I must not, sir.

Ant. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?  To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches From the ill tongues of men?

Vent. Who shall guard mine, For living after you?

Ant. Say, I command it.

Vent. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves, And need no living witness.

Ant. Thou hast loved me,
And fain I would reward thee.  I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death,
To make thee friends with Caesar.