I wish you joy o' the worm. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me: now no more The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act; I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come: Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell. Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world It is not worth leave-taking. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say, The gods themselves do weep! This proves me base: If she first meet the curled Antony, He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal wretch, With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass Unpolicied! O eastern star! Peace, peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse asleep? O, break! O, break! As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,-- O Antony!--Nay, I will take thee too. What should I stay-- In this vile world? So, fare thee well. Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close; And golden Phoebus never be beheld Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry; I'll mend it, and then play. Where is the queen? Speak softly, wake her not. Caesar hath sent-- Too slow a messenger. O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee. Approach, ho! All's not well: Caesar's beguiled. There's Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him. What work is here! Charmian, is this well done? It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings. Ah, soldier! How goes it here? All dead. Caesar, thy thoughts Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming To see perform'd the dreaded