"_Ventidius._ Emperor! _Antony._ Emperor? Why, that's the style of victory; The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so; but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. _Ventidius._ I warrant you. _Antony._ Actium, Actium! Oh---- _Ventidius._ It sits too near you. _Antony._ Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day; And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams...." "_Ventidius._ That's my royal master; And, shall we fight? _Antony._ I warrant thee, old soldier. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron; And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, 'Come, follow me.'"[422] He fancies himself on the battlefield, and already his impetuosity carries him away. Such a man is not fit to govern men; we cannot master fortune until we have mastered ourselves; this man is only made to belie and destroy himself, and to be veered round alternately by every passion. As soon as he believes Cleopatra faithful, honor, reputation, empire, everything vanishes: "_Ventidius._ And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame? _Antony._ What is't, Ventidius? it outweighs them all. Why, we have more than conquer'd Cæsar now. My queen's not only innocent, but loves me.... Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wrong'd innocence! _Ventidius._ I'll rather die than take it. Will you go? _Antony._ Go! Whither? Go from all that's excellent! ... Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Cæsar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world; and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra."[423] Dejection follows excess; these souls are only tempered against fear; their courage is but that of the bull and the lion; to be fully themselves, they need bodily action, visible danger; their temperament sustains them; before great moral sufferings they give away. When Antony thinks himself deceived, he despairs, and has nothing left but to die: "Let him (Cæsar) 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."[424] Such verses remind us of Othello's gloomy dreams, of Macbeth's, of Hamlet's even; beyond the pile of swelling tirades and characters of painted cardboard, it is as though the poet had touched the ancient drama, and brought its emotion away with him.