Cut my lace, Charmian, come--But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well. So Antony loves. ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear: And give true evidence to his love which stands An honorable trial. CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me. I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her: Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling; and let it look Like perfect honor. ANTONY. You'll heat my blood--no more. CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet; but this is meetly. ANTONY. Now, by my sword-- CLEOPATRA. And target--still he mends: But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe! This is, indeed, most "excellent dissembling;" but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that return of tenderness which secures the power she has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell. Forgive me! Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honor calls you hence, Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success Be strew'd before your feet! Finer still are the workings of her variable mind and lively imagination, after Antony's departure; her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such things as space and time; and high treason to her sovereign power, to dare to remember what she chooses to forget Give me to drink mandragora, That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away. O Charmian! Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he, Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st? The demi-Atlas of this earth--the arm And burgonet of men. He's speaking now, Or murmuring, Where's my serpent of old Nile? For so he calls me. Met'st thou my posts? ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers: Why do you send so thick? CLEOPATRA. Who's born that day When I forget to send to Antony, Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so? CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!