To none but thee; no more, but when to thee.
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 say
again, thy spirit
Is all afraid to govern thee near him;
But, he away, 'tis noble.
Get thee gone:
Say to Ventidius I would speak with him:
He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap,
He hath spoken true: the very dice obey him;
And in our sports my
better cunning faints
Under his chance: if we draw lots, he speeds;
His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
it is all to nought; and his quails ever
Beat mine, inhoop'd, at odds. I will to Egypt:
And though I make this
marriage for my peace,
I' the east my pleasure lies.
O, come, Ventidius,
You must to Parthia: your commission's ready;
Follow me, and receive't.
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