Iras. Will you then die?

Cleo. Why should’st thou make that question?

Iras. Caesar is most merciful.

Cleo. Let him be so
To those that want his mercy:  My poor lord
Made no such covenant with him, to spare me
When he was dead.  Yield me to Caesar’s pride? 
What! to be led in triumph through the streets,
A spectacle to base plebeian eyes;
While some dejected friend of Antony’s,
Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters
A secret curse on her, who ruined him! 
I’ll none of that.

Char. Whatever you resolve, I’ll follow, even to death.

Iras. I only feared For you; but more should fear to live without you.

Cleo. Why, now, ’tis as it should be.  Quick, my friends,
Despatch; ere this, the town’s in Caesar’s hands: 
My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,
Lest I should be surprised;
Keep him not waiting for his love too long. 
You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels;
With them, the wreath of victory I made
(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: 
You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.

Iras. The aspicks, madam?

Cleo. Must I bid you twice? [Ex. CHAR. and IRAS. 
’Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me,
To rush into the dark abode of death,
And seize him first; if he be like my love,
He is not frightful, sure. 
We’re now alone, in secresy and silence;
And is not this like lovers?  I may kiss
These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: 
And, oh! ’tis better far to have him thus,
Than see him in her arms.—­O welcome, welcome!

  Enter CHARMION and IRAS.

Char. What must be done?

Cleo. Short ceremony, friends;
But yet it must be decent.  First, this laurel
Shall crown my hero’s head:  he fell not basely,
Nor left his shield behind him.—­Only thou
Could’st triumph o’er thyself; and thou alone
Wert worthy so to triumph.

Char. To what end These ensigns of your pomp and royalty?

Cleo. Dull, that thou art! why,’tis to meet my love;
As when I saw him first, on Cydnos’ bank,
All sparkling, like a goddess:  so adorned,
I’ll find him once again; my second spousals
Shall match my first in glory.  Haste, haste, both,
And dress the bride of Antony.

Char. ’Tis done.

Cleo. Now seat me by my lord.  I claim this place;
For I must conquer Caesar too, like him,
And win my share of the world.—­Hail, you dear relicks
Of my immortal love! 
O let no impious hand remove you hence;
But rest for ever here!  Let Egypt give
His death that peace, which it denied his life.—­
Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit the aspick lies.