Vent. Would you believe he loved you?
I read your answer in your eyes, you would.
Not to conoeal it longer, he has sent
A messenger from Cæsar’s camp, with letters.

Ant. Let him appear.

Vent. I’ll bring him instantly.
[Exit Ventidius, and re-enters immediately with Dolabella.

Ant. ’Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship!

[Runs to embrace him.

Dola. I must be silent, for my soul is busy
About a nobler work: she’s new come home,
Like a long-absent man, and wanders o’er
Each room, a stranger to her own, to look
If all be safe.

Ant. Thou hast what’s left of me;
For I am now so sunk from what I was,
Thou find’st me at my lowest water-mark.
The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,
Are all dried up, or take another course:
What I have left is from my native spring;
I’ve still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,
And lifts me to my banks.

Dola. Still you are lord of all the world to me.

Ant. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all.
If I had any joy when thou wert absent,
I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed
Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella!
Thou hast beheld me other than I am.
Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled
With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me?
With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,
To worship my uprising?—menial kings
Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,
Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes,
And, at my least command, all started out,
Like racers to the goal.

Dola. Slaves to your fortune.

Ant. Fortune is Cæsar’s now; and what am I?

Vent. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter.

Ant. Is this friendly done?

Dola. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him;
Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide;
Why am I else your friend?

Ant. Take heed, young man,
How thou upbraid’st my love: The queen has eyes,
And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember,
When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld’st her first,
As accessary to thy brother’s death?

Dola. Spare my remembrance; ’twas a guilty day,
And still the blush hangs here.

Ant. To clear herself,
For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.
Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed,
The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold;
The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:
Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;
Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

Dola. No more; I would not hear it.

Ant. Oh, you must!
She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look so languishingly sweet,
As if, secure of all beholders’ hearts,
Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,
Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds,
That played about her face. But if she smiled,
A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,
That men’s desiring eyes were never wearied,
But hung upon the object: To soft flutes
The silver oars kept time; and while they played,
The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;
And both to thought.