no more on't.

  ANTONY. Give me some music, look that it be sad.
  I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,
  And burst myself with sighing.—
       [Soft music.]
  'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy
  I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
  Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;
  Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,
  Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,
  I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
  And look just of a piece as I grew from it;
  My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,
  Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook
  Runs at my foot.

  VENTIDIUS. Methinks I fancy
  Myself there too.

  ANTONY. The herd come jumping by me,
  And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,
  And take me for their fellow-citizen.
  More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts.
       [Soft music again.]

  VENTIDIUS. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.
       [Stands before him.]

ANTONY. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius?

  VENTIDIUS. Are you Antony?
  I'm liker what I was, than you to him
  I left you last.

ANTONY. I'm angry.

VENTIDIUS. So am I.

ANTONY. I would be private: leave me.

  VENTIDIUS. Sir, I love you,
  And therefore will not leave you.

  ANTONY. Will not leave me!
  Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I?

  VENTIDIUS. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven:
  If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin:
  You're all that's good, and god-like.

  ANTONY. All that's wretched.
  You will not leave me then?

  VENTIDIUS. 'Twas too presuming
  To say I would not; but I dare not leave you:
  And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence
  So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

  ANTONY. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied?
  For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;
  And, if a foe, too much.

  VENTIDIUS. Look, emperor, this is no common dew.
       [Weeping.]
  I have not wept this forty years; but now
  My mother comes afresh into my eyes;
  I cannot help her softness.

  ANTONY. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!
  The big round drops course one another down
  The furrows of his cheeks.—Stop them, Ventidius,
  Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame,
  That caused them, full before me.

VENTIDIUS. I'll do my best.

  ANTONY. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:
  See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not
  For my own griefs, but thine.—Nay, father!

VENTIDIUS. Emperor.

  ANTONY. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory;
  The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
  Salutes his general so; but never more
  Shall that sound reach my ears.

VENTIDIUS. I warrant you.

ANTONY. Actium, Actium! Oh!—

VENTIDIUS. It sits too near you.

  ANTONY. Here, here it lies a lump of lead by day,
  And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,
  The hag that rides my dreams.—

VENTIDIUS. Out with it; give it vent.

  ANTONY. Urge not my shame.
  I lost a battle,—

VENTIDIUS. So has Julius done.

  ANTONY. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st;
  For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly.
  But Antony—

VENTIDIUS. Nay, stop not.

  ANTONY. Antony—
  Well, thou wilt have it,—like a coward, fled,
  Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.
  Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.
  I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

VENTIDIUS. I did.

ANTONY. I'll help thee.—I have been a man, Ventidius.

VENTIDIUS. Yes, and a brave one! but—

  ANTONY. I know thy meaning.
  But I have lost my reason, have disgraced
  The name of soldier, with inglorious ease.
  In the full vintage of my flowing honours,
  Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands.
  Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,
  And purple greatness met my ripened years.
  When first I came to empire, I was borne
  On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;
  The wish of nations, and the willing world
  Received me as its pledge of future peace;
  I was so great, so happy, so beloved,
  Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,
  And worked against my fortune, child her from me,
  And returned her loose; yet still she came again.
  My careless days, and my luxurious nights,
  At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,
  Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier,
  To curse this madman, this industrious fool,
  Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee, curse me.

VENTIDIUS. No.

ANTONY. Why?

  VENTIDIUS. You are too sensible already
  Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;
  And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first
  To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.
  I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,
  Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.

ANTONY. I know thou would'st.

VENTIDIUS. I will.

ANTONY. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

VENTIDIUS. You laugh.

  ANTONY. I do, to see officious love.
  Give cordials to the dead.

VENTIDIUS. You would be lost, then?

ANTONY. I am.

VENTIDIUS. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

  ANTONY. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate,
  Without just cause? No, when I found all lost
  Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,
  And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do
  So heartily, I think it is not worth
  The cost of keeping.

  VENTIDIUS. Caesar thinks not so;
  He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.
  You would be killed like Tully, would you? do,
  Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely.

ANTONY. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

  VENTIDIUS. I can die with you too, when time shall serve;
  But fortune calls upon us now to live,
  To fight, to conquer.

ANTONY. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

  VENTIDIUS. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours
  In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.
  Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,
  And long to call you chief: By painful journeys
  I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
  Down form the Parthian marches to the Nile.
  'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,
  Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them.
  They'll