_Ant._ Thou hast what's left of me; For I am now so sunk from what I was, Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, Are all dried up, or take another course: What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks. _Dola._ Still you are lord of all the world to me. _Ant._ Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. If I had any joy when thou wert absent, I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed Thee of thy part. But, oh, my Dolabella! Thou hast beheld me other than I am. Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled With sceptered slaves, who waited to salute me? With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, To worship my uprising? menial kings Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal[2]. _Dola._ Slaves to your fortune. _Ant._ Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I? _Vent._ What you have made yourself; I will not flatter. _Ant._ Is this friendly done? _Dola._ Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him; Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide: Why am I else your friend? _Ant._ Take heed, young man, How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first As accessary to thy brother's death? _Dola._ Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, And still the blush hangs here. _Ant._ To clear herself, For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt. Her galley down the silver Cydnos rowed, The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay. _Dola._ No more: I would not hear it. _Ant._ O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds, That played about her face: but if she smiled, A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more: For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear,--Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death? _Dola._ And should my weakness be a plea for yours? Mine was an age when love might be excused, When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth Made it a debt to nature. Yours--