I be taken: not the imperious show Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall Be brooch'd with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe: Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,-- Help me, my women,--we must draw thee up: Assist, good friends. O, quick, or I am gone. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! Our strength is all gone into heaviness, That makes the weight: had I great Juno's power, The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up, And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little,-- Wishes were ever fools,--O, come, come, come; And welcome, welcome! die where thou hast lived: Quicken with kissing: had my lips that power, Thus would I wear them out. A heavy sight! I am dying, Egypt, dying: Give me some wine, and let me speak a little. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high, That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel, Provoked by my offence. One word, sweet queen: Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O! They do not go together. Gentle, hear me: None about Caesar trust but Proculeius. My resolution and my hands I'll trust; None about Caesar. The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world, The noblest; and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman,--a Roman by a Roman Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going; I can no more. Noblest of men, woo't die? Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty? O, see, my women, The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! 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. O, quietness, lady! She is dead too, our sovereign. Lady! Madam! O madam, madam, madam! Royal Egypt, Empress! Peace, peace, Iras! No more, but e'en a woman, and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks And does the meanest chares. It were for me To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;