Cleo. And yet you leave me! 
You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you,
Indeed I do:  I have refused a kingdom;
That is a trifle;
For I could part with life, with any thing,
But only you.  O let me die but with you! 
Is that a hard request?

Ant. Next living with you, ’Tis all that heaven can give.

Alex. He melts; we conquer. [Aside.

Cleo. No; you shall go:  your interest calls you hence;
Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these
Weak arms to hold you here. [Takes his hand.
Go; leave me, soldier;
(For you’re no more a lover:) leave me dying: 
Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom,
And, when your march begins, let one run after,
Breathless almost for joy, and cry—­she’s dead: 
The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh,
And muster all your Roman gravity: 
Ventidius chides; and strait your brow clears up,
As I had never been.

Ant. Gods, ’tis too much; too much for man to bear.

Cleo. What is’t for me then,
A weak forsaken woman, and a lover?—­
Here let me breathe my last:  envy me not
This minute in your arms:  I’ll die apace,
As fast as e’er I can; and end your trouble.

Ant. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature
Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven,
And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! 
My eyes, my soul, my all!—­ [Embraces her.

Vent. And what’s this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?

Ant. What is’t, Ventidius? it out-weighs them all;
Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now: 
My queen’s not only innocent, but loves me. 
This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! 
But, could she ’scape without me, with what haste
Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore,
And never look behind! 
Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,
And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

Vent. I’ll rather die, than take it.  Will you go?

Ant. Go!  Whither?  Go from all that’s excellent! 
Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,
That I should go from her, who sets my love
Above the price of kingdoms.  Give, you gods,
Give to your boy, your Caesar,
This rattle of a globe to play withal,
This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: 
I’ll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

Cleo. She’s wholly yours.  My heart’s so full of joy,
That I shall do some wild extravagance
Of love, in public; and the foolish world,
Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.

Vent. O women! women! women! all the gods Have not such power of doing good to man, As you of doing harm. [Exit.