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    Act 4. Scene XII

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    SCENE XII. Another part of the same.

    Yet they are not join'd: where yond pine
    does stand,
    I shall discover all: I'll bring thee word
    Straight, how 'tis like to go.


    Swallows have built
    In Cleopatra's sails their nests: the augurers
    Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,
    And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
    Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts,
    His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear,
    Of what he has, and has not.

    Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight

    Re-enter MARK ANTONY

    All is lost;
    This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:
    My fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder
    They cast their caps up and carouse together
    Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore!
    'tis thou
    Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart
    Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
    For when I am revenged upon my charm,
    I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.

    Exit SCARUS

    O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:
    Fortune and Antony part here; even here
    Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts
    That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave
    Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
    On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd,
    That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am:
    O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,--
    Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home;
    Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,--
    Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,
    Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.
    What, Eros, Eros!


    Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!

    Why is my lord enraged against his love?

    Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,
    And blemish Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee,
    And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians:
    Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot
    Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown
    For poor'st diminutives, for doits; and let
    Patient Octavia plough thy visage up
    With her prepared nails.


    'Tis well thou'rt gone,
    If it be well to live; but better 'twere
    Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death
    Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!
    The shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me,
    Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage:
    Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o' the moon;
    And with those hands, that grasp'd the heaviest club,
    Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die:
    To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
    Under this plot; she dies for't. Eros, ho!

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