Rome. An ante-chamber in Octavius Caesar's house
Enter Agrippa at one door, Domitius Enobarbus
What, are the brothers parted?
They have dispatch'd with Pompey, he is gone;
The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps
To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,
Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled
With the green sickness.
A very fine one: O, how he loves Caesar!
Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!
Caesar? Why, he's the Jupiter of men.
What's Antony? The god of Jupiter.
Spake you of Caesar? How! the non-pareil!
O Antony! O thou Arabian bird!
Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar:' go no further.
Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.
But he loves Caesar best; yet he loves Antony:
Ho! Hearts, Tongues, Figure,
Scribes, Bards, Poets, cannot
Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number: ho,
His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,
Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.
They are his shards, and he their beetle.
This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.
Good fortune, worthy soldier; and farewell.
You take from me a great part of myself;
Use me well in 't. Sister, prove such a wife
As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band
Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,
Let not the piece of virtue, which is set
Betwixt us as the cement of our love,
To keep it builded, be the ram to batter
The fortress of it; for better might we
Have loved without this mean, if on both parts
This be not cherish'd.
Make me not offended
In your distrust.
You shall not find,
Though you be therein curious, the least cause
For what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you,
And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!
We will here part.
Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well:
The elements be kind to thee, and make
Thy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well.
The April 's in her eyes: it is love's spring,
And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.
Sir, look well to my husband's house; and—
I'll tell you in your ear.
Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
Her heart inform her tongue,—
The swan's down-feather
That stands upon the swell at full of tide,
And neither way inclines.
He has a cloud in 's face.
He were the worse for that were he a horse, so is
he, being a man.
When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,
He cried almost to roaring; and he wept
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.
That year, indeed, he was
troubled with a rheum;
What willingly he did confound he wail'd,
Believe't, till I wept too.
No, sweet Octavia,
You shall hear from me still; the time shall not
Out-go my thinking on you.
Come, sir, come;
I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love:
Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,
And give you to the gods.
Let all the number of the stars give light
To thy fair way!