William Shakespeare: Antony and Cleopatra, Act IV, Scene XV
Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras
All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.
Enter, below, Diomedes
Look out o' the other side your monument;
His guard have brought him thither.
Enter, below, Mark Antony, borne by the Guard
Burn the great sphere thou movest in, darkling stand
The varying shore o' the world. O Antony,
Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help;
Help, friends below; let's draw him hither.
I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay up thy lips.
Dear my lord, pardon,?I dare not,
Lest I be taken: not the imperious show
Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall
Be brooch'd with me; if knife, drugs, serpents have
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe:
Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes
And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour
Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,?
Help me, my women,?we must draw thee up:
Assist, good friends.
Our strength is all gone into heaviness,
That makes the weight: had I great Juno's power,
The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,
And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little,?
Wishes were ever fools,?O, come, come, come;
They heave Mark Antony aloft to Cleopatra
Quicken with kissing: had my lips that power,
Thus would I wear them out.
That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel,
Provoked by my offence.
Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts
In feeding them with those my former fortunes
Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world,
The noblest; and do now not basely die,
Not cowardly put off my helmet to
My countryman,?a Roman by a Roman
Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going;
I can no more.
Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide
In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a sty? O, see, my women,
Mark Antony dies
O, wither'd is the garland of the war,
The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls
Are level now with men; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.
By such poor passion as the maid that milks
And does the meanest chares. It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
To tell them that this world did equal theirs
Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but naught;
Patience is scottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad: then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death,
Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?
What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!
My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,
Our lamp is spent, it's out! Good sirs, take heart:
We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us. Come, away:
This case of that huge spirit now is cold:
Ah, women, women! come; we have no friend
But resolution, and the briefest end.
Exeunt; those above bearing off Mark Antony's body
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