_Ant._ No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. _Vent._ I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer. _Ant._ Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. _Vent._ No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: By painful journeys, I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches 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. _Ant._ Where left you them? _Vent._ I said in Lower Syria. _Ant._ Bring them hither; There may be life in these. _Vent._ They will not come. _Ant._ Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. _Vent._ Most firm and loyal. _Ant._ Yet they will not march To succour me. Oh trifler! _Vent._ They petition You would make haste to head them. _Ant._ I'm besieged. _Vent._ There's but one way shut up: How came I hither? _Ant._ I will not stir. _Vent._ They would perhaps desire A better reason. _Ant._ I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march? _Vent._ They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. _Ant._ What was't they said? _Vent._ They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province. _Ant._ Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life, No word of Cleopatra: she deserves More worlds than I can lose. _Vent._ Behold, you Powers, To whom you have entrusted human kind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! I think the Gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. _Ant._ You grow presumptuous. _Vent._ I take the privilege of plain love to speak. _Ant._ Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. O that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee Without a stain to honour! _Vent._ You may kill me; You have done more already,--called me traitor. _Ant._ Art thou not one?