_Vent._ O Syren! Syren! Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, Has she not ruined you? I still urge that, The fatal consequence. _Cleo._ The consequence indeed; For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe, To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you, And kept you far from an uneasy wife,-- Such Fulvia was. Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;-- And, can you blame me to receive that love, Which quitted such desert, for worthless me? How often have I wished some other Caesar, Great as the first, and as the second young, Would court my love, to be refused for you! _Vent._ Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium. _Cleo._ Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not. I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear; Would I had been a man, not to have feared! For none would then have envied me your friendship, Who envy me your love. _Ant._ We are both unhappy: If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. Speak; would you have me perish by my stay? _Cleo._ If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish-- 'Tis a hard word--but stay. _Vent._ See now the effects of her so boasted love! She strives to drag you down to ruin with her; But, could she 'scape without you, oh how soon Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, And never look behind! _Cleo._ Then judge my love by this. [_Giving_ ANTONY _a writing._ Could I have borne A life or death, a happiness or woe, From yours divided, this had given me means. _Ant._ By Hercules, the writing of Octavius! I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, Young as it was, that led the way to mine, And left me but the second place in murder.-- See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt, And joins all Syria to it, as a present; So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, And join her arms with his. _Cleo._ And yet you leave me! You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you, Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom; That is a trifle; For I could part with life, with any thing, But only you. O let me die but with you! Is that a hard request? _Ant._ Next living with you, 'Tis all that heaven can give. _Alex._ He melts; we conquer. [_Aside._ _Cleo._ No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. [_Takes his hand._ Go; leave me, soldier; (For you're no more a lover:) leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry--she's dead: The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and strait your brow clears up, As I had never been. _Ant._ Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear.