thou be lord of the whole world? That's twice.
How should that be?
But entertain it,
And, though thou think me poor, I am the man
Will give thee all the world.
Hast thou drunk well?
Now, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
Thou art, if thou darest be, the earthly Jove:
Whate'er the ocean pales, or sky inclips,
Is thine, if thou wilt ha't.
Show me which way.
These three world-sharers, these competitors,
Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable;
And, when we are put off, fall to their throats:
All there is thine.
Ah, this thou shouldst have done,
And not have spoke on't! In me 'tis villany;
In thee't had been good service. Thou must know,
'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;
Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue
Hath so betray'd thine act: being done unknown,
I should have found it afterwards well done;
But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
For this,
I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.
Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,
Shall never find it more.
This health to Lepidus!
Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.
Here's to thee, Menas!
Enobarbus, welcome!
Fill till the cup be hid.
There's a strong fellow, Menas.
Why?
A' bears the third part of the world, man; see'st
not?
The third part, then, is drunk: would it were all,
That it might go on wheels!
Drink thou; increase the reels.
Come.
This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.
It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho?
Here is to Caesar!
I could well forbear't.
It's monstrous labour, when I wash my brain,
And it grows fouler.
Be a child o' the time.
Possess it, I'll make answer:
But I had rather fast from all four days
Than drink so much in one.
Ha, my brave emperor!
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals,
And celebrate our drink?
Let's ha't, good soldier.
Come, let's all take hands,
Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense
In soft and delicate Lethe.
All take hands.
Make battery to our ears with the loud music:
The while I'll place you: then the boy shall sing;
The holding every man shall bear as loud
As his strong sides can volley.
Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
In thy fats our cares be drown'd,
With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:
Cup