Antony and Cleopatra (1606 – 1623)
Antony and Cleopatra is a historical tragedy by William Shakespeare, originally printed in the First Folio of 1623.
Eternity was in our lips and eyes.
I have eyes upon him,
And his affairs come to me on the wind.
Mechanic slaves
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view; in their thick breath,
Rank with gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forc'd to drink their vapour.
I wish you joy o' the worm.
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep?
His delights
Were dolphin-like; they show'd his back above
The element they lived in.
If thou dost play with him at any game,
Thou art sure to lose; and, of that natural luck,
He beats thee 'gainst the odds; thy lustre thickens
When he shines by.
I have
Immortal longings in me.
Antony: Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish;
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon ’t, that nod unto the world,
And mock our eyes with air: thou hast seen these signs?
They are black vesper's pageants.
Enorbarbus: Ay, my lord.
Antony: That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
As water is in water.
I was
A morsel for a monarch.
I have not kept my square; but that to come
Shall all be done by the rule.
’T was merry when
You wager’d on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.
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.