my humour: stay, I fancy
I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;
Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,
Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,
I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
And look just of a piece as I grew from it;
My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
Runs at my foot.

_Vent._ Methinks, I fancy
Myself there too.

_Ant._ The herd come jumping by me,
And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,
And take me for their fellow-citizen.
More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [_Soft music again._

_Vent._ I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.
[_Stands before him._

_Ant._ [_Starting up._] Art thou Ventidius?

_Vent._ Are you Antony?
I'm liker what I was, than you to him
I left you last.

_Ant._ I'm angry.

_Vent._ So am I.

_Ant._ I would be private: leave me.

_Vent._ Sir, I love you,
And therefore will not leave you.

_Ant._ Will not leave me!
Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

_Vent._ My emperor; the man I love next heaven:
If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin:
You're all that's good, and godlike.

_Ant._ All that's wretched.
You will not leave me then?

_Vent._ 'Twas too presuming
To say I would not; but I dare not leave you:
And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence
So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

_Ant._ Now thou hast seen me, art thou satified?
For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;
And, if a foe, too much.

_Vent._ Look, emperor, this is no common dew, [_Weeping._
I have not wept this forty years; but now
My mother comes afresh into my eyes;
I cannot help her softness.

_Ant._ By heaven, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!
The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death: they set my shame,
That caused them, full before me.

_Vent._ I'll do my best.

_Ant._ Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:
See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not
For my own griefs, but thine.--Nay, father!

_Vent._ Emperor.

_Ant._ Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory;
The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so: but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.

_Vent._ I warrant you.

_Ant._ Actium, Actium! Oh!--

_Vent._ It sits too near you.

_Ant._ Here, he