"No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: By painful journies, I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marshes to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in them. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy."[419] And when all is lost, when the Egyptians have turned traitors and there is nothing left but to die well, Ventidius says: "There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest: if death be your design-- As I must wish it now--these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial.... Chuse your death; For, I have seen in him 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 least thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that inclose us."[420]... Antony begs him to go, but he refuses; and then he entreats Ventidius to kill him: "_Antony._ Do not deny me twice. _Ventidius._ By Heaven I will not. Let it not be to outlive you. _Antony._ Kill me first, And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself. _Ventidius._ Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor! [_Embraces._] ... I will not make a business of a trifle: And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you. Pray, turn your face. _Antony._ I do: strike home, be sure. _Ventidius._ Home, as my sword will reach."[421] And with one blow he kills himself. These are the tragic, stoical manners of a military monarchy, the great profusion of murders and sacrifices wherewith the men of this overturned and shattered society killed and died. This Antony, for whom so much has been done, is not undeserving of their love: he has been one of Cæsar's heroes, the first soldier of the van; kindness and generosity breathe from him to the last; if he is weak against a woman, he is strong against men; he has the muscles and heart, the wrath and passions of a soldier; it is this fever-heat of blood, this too quick sentiment of honor, which has caused him ruin; he cannot forgive his own crime; he possesses not that lofty genius which, dwelling in a region superior to ordinary rules, emancipates a man from hesitation, from discouragement and remorse; he is only a soldier, he cannot forget that he has not executed the orders given to him: