cities, condemn myself to lack The courage of a woman; less noble mind Than she which by her death our Caesar tells 'I am conqueror of myself.' Thou art sworn, Eros, That, when the exigent should come, which now Is come indeed, when I should see behind me The inevitable prosecution of Disgrace and horror, that, on my command, Thou then wouldst kill me: do't; the time is come: Thou strikest not me, 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st. Put colour in thy cheek. The gods withhold me! Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim, and could not? Eros, Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdued To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded His baseness that ensued? I would not see't. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cured. Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn Most useful for thy country. O, sir, pardon me! When I did make thee free, sworest thou not then To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once; Or thy precedent services are all But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come. Turn from me, then, that noble countenance, Wherein the worship of the whole world lies. Lo thee! My sword is drawn. Then let it do at once The thing why thou hast drawn it. My dear master, My captain, and my emperor, let me say, Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell. 'Tis said, man; and farewell. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now? Now, Eros. Why, there then: thus I do escape the sorrow Of Antony's death. Thrice-nobler than myself! Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros Have by their brave instruction got upon me A nobleness in record: but I will be A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros, Thy master dies thy scholar: to do thus I learn'd of thee. How! not dead? not dead? The guard, ho! O, dispatch me! What's the noise? I have done my work in, friends: O, make an end Of what I have begun. The star is fall'n. And time is at his period. Alas, and woe! Let him that loves me strike me dead. Not I. Nor I. Nor any one. Thy death and fortunes