ld troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud--Come, follow me!

_Vent._ O now I hear my emperor! in that word
Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,
And, if I have ten years behind, take all:
I'll thank you for the exchange.

_Ant._ Oh, Cleopatra!

_Vent._ Again?

_Ant._ I've done: In that last sigh, she went.
Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover
From all he holds most dear.

_Vent._ Methinks, you breathe
Another soul: Your looks are more divine;
You speak a hero, and you move a god.

_Ant._ O, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,
And mans each part about me: Once again,
That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;
That eagerness, with which I darted upward
To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill
Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears
Sung round my head, and planted all my shield;
I won the trenches, while my foremost men
Lagged on the plain below.

_Vent._ Ye gods, ye gods,
For such another honour!

_Ant._ Come on, my soldier!
Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long
Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,
Like time and death, marching before our troops,
May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage,
And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield,
Begin the noble harvest of the field. [_Exeunt._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_Enter_ CLEOPATRA, IRAS, _and_ ALEXAS.

_Cleo._ What shall I do, or whither shall I turn?
Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go.

_Alex._ He goes to fight for you.

_Cleo._ Then he would see me, ere he went to fight:
Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost,
And all my hopes destroyed.

_Alex._ Does this weak passion
Become a mighty queen?

_Cleo._ I am no queen:
Is this to be a queen, to be besieged
By yon insulting Roman, and to wait
Each hour the victor's chain? These ills are small;
For Antony is lost, and I can mourn
For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius,
I have no more to lose; prepare thy bands;
I'm fit to be a captive: Antony
Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave.

_Iras._ Call reason to assist you.

_Cleo._ I have none,
And none would have: My love's a noble madness,
Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow
Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:
But I have loved with such transcendent passion,
I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,
And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud
'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me now!
Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me?