Act IVScene XII
Another part of the Ground
Alarum afar off, as at a sea fight. Enter Antony and Scarus.
Antony
Yet they are not joined. Where yond pine does standI shall discover all. I’ll bring thee wordStraight how ’tis like to go.
Exit.
Scarus
Swallows have builtIn Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augursSay they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,And dare not speak their knowledge. AntonyIs valiant and dejected, and by startsHis fretted fortunes give him hope and fearOf what he has and has not.
Enter Antony.
Antony
All is lost!This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonderThey cast their caps up and carouse togetherLike friends long lost. Triple-turned whore! ’Tis thouHast sold me to this novice, and my heartMakes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;For when I am revenged upon my charm,I have done all. Bid them all fly! Be gone!
Exit Scarus.
O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more.Fortune and Antony part here; even hereDo we shake hands. All come to this! The heartsThat spanieled me at heels, to whom I gaveTheir wishes, do discandy, melt their sweetsOn blossoming Caesar, and this pine is barkedThat overtopped them all. Betray’d I am:O this false soul of Egypt! This grave charm,Whose eye becked forth my wars and called them home,Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,Like a right gypsy hath at fast and looseBeguiled me to the very heart of loss.What, Eros, Eros!
Enter Cleopatra.
Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
Cleopatra
Why is my lord enraged against his love?
Antony
Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deservingAnd blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take theeAnd hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians!Follow his chariot, like the greatest spotOf all thy sex; most monster-like be shownFor poor’st diminutives, for dolts, and letPatient Octavia plough thy visage upWith her prepared nails.
Exit Cleopatra.
’Tis well thou’rt gone,If it be well to live; but better ’twereThou fell’st into my fury, for one deathMight have prevented many.—Eros, ho!—The shirt of Nessus is upon me. Teach me,Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage.Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ th’ moon,And with those hands that grasped the heaviest clubSubdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die.To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fallUnder this plot. She dies for’t.—Eros, ho!
Exit.