Dola. I would not see her lost.

Ant. When I forsake her,
Leave me my better stars! for she has truth
Beyond her beauty. Cæsar tempted her,
At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me;
But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me
For loving her too well. Could I do so?

Dola. Yes; there’s my reason.

Re-enter Ventidius, with Octavia, leading Antony’s two little Daughters.

Ant. Where?—Octavia there!

[Starting back.

Vent. What, is she poison to you?—a disease?
Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:
Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature
No secret call, no whisper they are yours?

Dola. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them
With kinder eyes. If you confess a man,
Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.
Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,
To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings,
To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out
And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

Ant. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

Vent. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown
To Cleopatra’s guards.

Dola. Yet, are you cold?

Octav. Thus long I have attended for my welcome;
Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.
Who am I?

Ant. Cæsar’s sister.

Octav. That’s unkind.
Had I been nothing more than Cæsar’s sister,
Know, I had still remained in Cæsar’s camp:
But your Octavia, your much injured wife,
Though banished from your bed, driven from your house.
In spite of Cæsar’s sister, still is yours.
’Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,
And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;
But a wife’s virtue still surmounts that pride.
I come to claim you as my own; to show
My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness:
Your hand, my lord; ’tis mine, and I will have it.

[Taking his hand.

Vent. Do, take it; thou deserv’st it.

Dola. On my soul,
And so she does: She’s neither too submissive,
Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean
Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

Ant. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life.

Octav. Begged it, my lord?

Ant. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress!
Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

Octav. Poorly and basely I could never beg:
Nor could my brother grant.

Ant. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,
Rise up, and be a king: shall I fall down
And cry,—Forgive me, Cæsar! Shall I set
A man, my equal, in the place of Jove,
As he could give me being? No; that word,
Forgive, would choke me up,
And die upon my tongue.