Page 2506 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

ANTONY

You have been a boggler ever, [110]
But when we in our viciousness grow hard −
O misery on’t! − the wise gods seel our eyes,

In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us
Adore our errors, laugh at’s while we strut
To our confusion.

CLEOPATRA
O, is’t come to this? [115]

ANTONY
I found you as a morsel, cold upon
Dead Cæsar’s trencher: nay, you were a fragment

Of Gnaeus Pompey’s, besides what hotter hours,
Unregister’d in vulgar fame, you have
Luxuriously pick’d out. For I am sure, [120]

Though you can guess what temperance should be,
You know not what it is.

CLEOPATRA
Wherefore is this?

ANTONY
To let a fellow that will take rewards,
And say, ‘God quit you!’, be familiar with
My playfellow, your hand; this kingly seal, [125]

And plighter of high hearts! O that I were
Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar
The horned herd, for I have savage cause,

And to proclaim it civilly, were like
A halter’d neck, which does the hangman thank [130]
For being yare about him.

(Re-)enter a Servant with Thidias.

Is he whipp’d?