urs.
'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.

_Vent._ Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! }
Both scorn to be obliged. }
}
_Dola._ O, she has touched him in the tenderest part; }
See how he reddens with despite and shame, } _Apart._
To be out-done in generosity!