purposeth to Athens: whither, with what haste The weight we must convey with's will permit, We shall appear before him. On there; pass along! What, are the brothers parted? They have dispatch'd with Pompey, he is gone; The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus, Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled With the green sickness. 'Tis a noble Lepidus. A very fine one: O, how he loves Caesar! Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! Caesar? Why, he's the Jupiter of men. What's Antony? The god of Jupiter. Spake you of Caesar? How! the non-pareil! O Antony! O thou Arabian bird! Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar:' go no further. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises. But he loves Caesar best; yet he loves Antony: Ho! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho! His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder. Both he loves. They are his shards, and he their beetle. So; This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa. Good fortune, worthy soldier; and farewell. No further, sir. You take from me a great part of myself; Use me well in 't. Sister, prove such a wife As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, Let not the piece of virtue, which is set Betwixt us as the cement of our love, To keep it builded, be the ram to batter The fortress of it; for better might we Have loved without this mean, if on both parts This be not cherish'd. Make me not offended In your distrust. I have said. You shall not find, Though you be therein curious, the least cause For what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you, And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends! We will here part. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well: The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well. My noble brother! The April 's in her eyes: it is love's spring, And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. Sir, look well to my husband's house; and-- What, Octavia? I'll tell you in your ear. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue,--the swan's down-feather, That stands upon the swell at full