Antony and Cleopatra (1606 – 1623)
Antony and Cleopatra is a historical tragedy by William Shakespeare, originally printed in the First Folio of 1623.
I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
I here impórtune death a while, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.
To business that we love we rise betime,
And go to ’t with delight.
Antony, leave thy lascivious wassails.
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.
Tell him, he wears the rose
Of youth upon him.
He was dispos'd to mirth; but on the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burnt on the water; the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description.
Charmain: Be comforted, dear madam.
Cleopatra: No, I will not.
All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great.
Let me lament,
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
That thou, my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war,
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle,—that our stars,
Unreconciliable, should divide
Our equalness to this.
This morning, like the spirit of a youth
That means to be of note, begins betimes.
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.
Authority melts from me: of late, when I cried 'Ho!'
Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth,
And cry 'Your will?' Have you no ears? I am
Antony yet.
O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
That life, a very rebel to my will,
May hang no longer on me.
To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head,
And he will fill thy wishes to the brim
With principalities.
Give me to drink mandragora.
She shall be buried by her Antony:
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
A pair so famous.
He calls me boy; and chides, as he had power
To beat me out of Egypt; my messenger
He hath whipp'd with rods; dares me to personal combat,
Caesar to Antony: let the old ruffian know
I have many other ways to die; meantime
Laugh at his challenge.
Let the world rank me in register
A master-leaver and a fugitive:
O Antony! O Antony!
Mine honesty and I begin to square.
If I knew
What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge
O' the world I would pursue it.