_Ant._ But grieve not, while thou stayest, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day; And heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening. Ten years love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys,--what ages have we liv'd? And now to die each others; and, so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours. _Cleo._ Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love? _Ant._ No, not a minute.--This one kiss--more worth Than all I leave to Caesar. [_Dies._ _Cleo._ O, tell me so again, And take ten thousand kisses for that word. My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do any thing, that shows you live. _Iras._ He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul. _Char._ Remember, madam, He charged you not to grieve. _Cleo._ And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong For Roman laws to break. _Iras._ Will you then die? _Cleo._ Why should'st thou make that question? _Iras._ Caesar is most merciful. _Cleo._ Let him be so To those that want his mercy: My poor lord Made no such covenant with him, to spare me When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters A secret curse on her, who ruined him! I'll none of that. _Char._ Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death. _Iras._ I only feared For you; but more should fear to live without you. _Cleo._ Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Despatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made (Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills. _Iras._ The aspicks, madam? _Cleo._ Must I bid you twice? [_Ex._ CHAR. _and_ IRAS. 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure. We're now alone, in secresy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.--O welcome, welcome! _Enter_ CHARMION _and_ IRAS. _Char._ What must be done?