Dola. You shall not need it.

Ant. I will not need it. Come, you’ve all betrayed me,—
My friend too!—to receive some vile conditions.
My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears;
And now I must become her branded slave.
In every peevish mood, she will upbraid
The life she gave: if I but look awry,
She cries—I’ll tell my brother.

Octav. My hard fortune
Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.
But the conditions I have brought are such,
You need not blush to take: I love your honour,
Because ’tis mine; it never shall be said,
Octavia’s husband was her brother’s slave.
Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe;
For, though my brother bargains for your love,
Makes me the price and cement of your peace,
I have a soul like yours; I cannot take
Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.
I’ll tell my brother we are reconciled;
He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march
To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where. I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble.

A part Vent. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour!

A part Both scorn to be obliged.

A part Dola. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;

A part See how he reddens with despite and shame,

A part To be outdone in generosity!

A part Vent. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear,

A part That fain would fall!

Ant. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise
The greatness of your soul;
But cannot yield to what you have proposed:
For I can ne’er be conquered but by love;
And you do all for duty. You would free me,
And would be dropt at Athens; was’t not so?

Octav. It was, my lord.

Ant. Then I must be obliged
To one who loves me not; who, to herself,
May call me thankless and ungrateful man:—
I’ll not endure it; no.

Vent. I am glad it pinches there.

[Aside.

Octav. Would you triumph o’er poor Octavia’s virtue?
That pride was all I had to bear me up;
That you might think you owed me for your life,
And owed it to my duty, not my love.
I have been injured, and my haughty soul
Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed.

Ant. Therefore you love me not.

Octav. Therefore, my lord,
I should not love you.

Ant. Therefore you would leave me?

Octav. And therefore I should leave you—if I could.

Dola. Her soul’s too great, after such injuries,
To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it.
Her modesty and silence plead her cause.