_Cleo._ Oh I could curse my self, that was so foolish, So fondly childish to believe his tongue, His promising tongue, e're I could catch his temper, I had trash enough to have cloy'd his eyes withal, His covetous eyes; such as I scorn to tread on: Richer than e're he saw yet, and more tempting; Had I known he had stoop'd at that, I had sav'd mine honour, I had been happy still: but let him take it, And let him brag how poorly I am rewarded: Let him goe conquer still weak wretched Ladies: Love has his angry Quiver too, his deadly, And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest: I am a fool to fret thus, for a fool: An old blind fool too: I lose my health? I will not: I will not cry: I will not honour him With tears diviner than the gods he worships: I will not take the pains to curse a poor thing. _Eros_. Doe not: you shall not need. _Cleo._ Would I were prisoner To one I hate, that I might anger him, I will love any man, to break the heart of him: Any, that has the heart and will to kill him. _Ars._ Take some fair truce. _Cleo._ I will goe study mischief, And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings, Shall meet him like a Basilisque, and strike him: Love, put destroying flames into mine eyes, Into my smiles, deceits, that I may torture him, That I may make him love to death, and laugh at him. _Enter_ Apollodorus. _Ap._ _Cæsar_ commends his Service to your Grace. _Cleo._ His service? what's his service? _Eros_. Pray ye be patient, The noble _Cæsar_ loves still. _Cleo._ What's his will? _Ap._ He craves access unto your Highness. _Cleo._ No: Say no: I will have none to trouble me. _Ars._ Good Sister. _Cleo._ None I say: I will be private. Would thou hadst flung me into _Nilus_, keeper, When first thou gav'st consent, to bring my body To this unthankfull _Cæsar_. _Ap._ 'Twas your will, Madam, Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honoured ye: You know what danger I endured. _Cleo._ Take this, And carry it to that Lordly _Cæsar_ sent thee: There's a new Love, a handsom one, a rich one: One that will hug his mind: bid him make love to it: Tell the ambitious Broker, this will suffer-- _Enter Cæsar._ _Ap._ He enters. _Cleo._ How? _Cæsar._ I do not use to wait, Lady, Where I am, all the dores are free, and open. _Cleo._ I ghess so, by your rudeness. _Cæsar._ Ye are not angry? Things of your tender mold, should be most gentle; Why do you frown? good gods, what a set-anger Have you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper ye: What a coy smile was there, and a disdainfull! How like an ominous flash it broke out from ye! Defend me, Love, Sweet, who has anger'd ye? _Cleo._ Shew him a glass; that false face has betrai'd me: That base heart wrought me-- _Cæsar._ Be more sweetly angry; I wrong'd ye fair?