Document:  All > Shakespeare > Tragedies > Antony and Cleopatra > Act IV, scene XII


MARK ANTONY: Yet they are not join'd: where yond pine
	does stand,
	I shall discover all: I'll bring thee word
	Straight, how 'tis like to go.


SCARUS: Swallows have built
	In Cleopatra's sails their nests: the augurers
	Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,
	And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
	Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts,
	His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear,
	Of what he has, and has not.

	[Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight]

	[Re-enter MARK ANTONY]

MARK ANTONY: All is lost;
	This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:
	My fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder
	They cast their caps up and carouse together
	Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore!
	'tis thou
	Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart
	Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
	For when I am revenged upon my charm,
	I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.

	[Exit SCARUS]

	O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:
	Fortune and Antony part here; even here
	Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts
	That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave
	Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
	On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd,
	That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am:
	O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,--
	Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home;
	Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,--
	Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,
	Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.
	What, Eros, Eros!


	Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!

CLEOPATRA: Why is my lord enraged against his love?

MARK ANTONY: Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,
	And blemish Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee,
	And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians:
	Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot
	Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown
	For poor'st diminutives, for doits; and let
	Patient Octavia plough thy visage up
	With her prepared nails.


		'Tis well thou'rt gone,
	If it be well to live; but better 'twere
	Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death
	Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!
	The shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me,
	Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage:
	Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o' the moon;
	And with those hands, that grasp'd the heaviest club,
	Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die:
	To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
	Under this plot; she dies for't. Eros, ho!



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