Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence
On all my other faults; but, on your life,
No word of Cleopatra:  she deserves
More worlds than I can lose.

Vent. Behold, you Powers,
To whom you have entrusted human kind! 
See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance,
And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! 
I think the Gods are Antonies, and give,
Like prodigals, this nether world away
To none but wasteful hands.

Ant. You grow presumptuous.

Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.

Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! 
Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor;
Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented
The burden of thy rank o’erflowing gall. 
O that thou wert my equal; great in arms
As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee
Without a stain to honour!

Vent. You may kill me; You have done more already,—­called me traitor.

Ant. Art thou not one?

Vent. For showing you yourself,
Which none else durst have done? but had I been
That name, which I disdain to speak again,
I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,
Come to partake your fate, to die with you. 
What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles
To fill Octavius’ bands?  I could have been
A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,
And not have been so called.

Ant. Forgive me, soldier; I’ve been too passionate.

Vent. You thought me false;
Thought my old age betrayed you:  Kill me, sir,
Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness
Has left your sword no work.

Ant. I did not think so;
I said it in my rage:  Pr’ythee, forgive me: 
Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery
Of what I would not hear?

Vent. No prince but you
Could merit that sincerity I used,
Nor durst another man have ventured it;
But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes,
Were sure the chief and best of human race,
Framed in the very pride and boast of nature;
So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered
At their own skill, and cried,—­A lucky hit
Has mended our design.  Their envy hindered,
Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,
When heaven would work for ostentation sake,
To copy out again.

Ant. But Cleopatra—­ Go on; for I can bear it now.

Vent. No more.

Ant. Thou dar’st not trust my passion, but thou may’st; Thou only lov’st, the rest have flattered me.

Vent. Heaven’s blessing on your heart for that kind word!  May I believe you love me?  Speak again.

Ant. Indeed I do.  Speak this, and this, and this. [Hugging him.
Thy praises were unjust; but, I’ll deserve them,
And yet mend all.  Do with me what thou wilt;
Lead me to victory! thou know’st the way.