_Ant._ I stood amazed, to think how they came hither. _Vent._ I sent for them; I brought them in, unknown. To Cleopatra's guards. _Dola._ Yet, are you cold? _Octav._ Thus long I have attended for my welcome; Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I? _Ant._ Caesar's sister. _Octav._ That's unkind. Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister, Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp: But your Octavia, your much injured wife, Though banished from your bed, driven from your house, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness, And prompts me not to seek what you should offer; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. I come to claim you as my own; to show My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. [_Taking his hand._ _Vent._ Do, take it; thou deserv'st it. _Dola._ On my soul, And so she does: she's neither too submissive, Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too. _Ant._ I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life. _Octav._ Begged it, my lord? _Ant._ Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother. _Octav._ Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant. _Ant._ Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down And cry,--forgive me, Caesar! shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, Forgive, would choke me up, And die upon my tongue. _Dola._ You shall not need it. _Ant._ I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,-- My friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries,--I'll tell my brother. _Octav._ My hard fortune Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. But the conditions I have brought are such, You need not blush to take: I love your honour, Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, Octavia's husband was her brother's slave. Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loath; For, though my brother bargains for your love, Makes me the price and cement of your peace, I have a soul like yours; I cannot take Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. I'll tell my brother we are reconciled; He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens; No matter where. I never will complain, But only keep the barren name of wife, And rid you of the trouble.