Act IV
SCENE I
Enter Antony and Dolabella.
Dola. Why would you shift it from yourself on me?
Can you not tell her, you must part?
Ant. I cannot.
I could pull out an eye, and bid it go,
And t’other should not weep. O Dolabella,
How many
deaths are in this word, Depart!
I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:
One look of hers would thaw
me into tears,
And I should melt, till I were lost again.
Dola. Then let Ventidius;
He’s rough by nature.
Ant. Oh, he’ll speak too harshly;
He’ll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.
Dola. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould,
That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure,
Of some sad
lover’s death, moistens my eyes,
And robs me of my manhood. I should speak
So faintly, with such fear
to grieve her heart,
She’d not believe it earnest.
Ant. Therefore,—therefore
Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me;
And when thou speak’st (but let it first
be long),
Take off the edge from every sharper sound,
And let our parting be as gently made,
As other
loves begin: Wilt thou do this?
Dola. What you have said so sinks into my soul,
That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.
Ant. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell.
I sent her word to meet you.
Goes to the door, and comes back.
I forgot;Let her be told, I’ll make her peace with mine:
Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,
If I have power with Cæsar.—Oh, be sure
To think on that.
Dola. Fear not, I will remember.
[Antony goes again to the door, and comes back.
Ant. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained;
I did not this, but with extremest force:
Desire her not
to hate my memory,
For I still cherish hers;—insist on that.
Dola. Trust me, I’ll not forget it.
Ant. Then that’s all.
[Goes out, and returns again
Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more?Tell her, though we shall never meet again,
If I should hear she took another love,
The news would break my heart.—Now I must go;
For every time I have returned, I feel
My soul more tender; and my next command
Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both.
[Exit
Dola. Men are but children of a larger growth;
Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving
too, and full as vain;
And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room,
Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees
nothing;
But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,
Works all her folly up, and casts it outward
To the world’s
open view: Thus I discovered,
And blamed the love of ruined Antony;
Yet wish that I were he, to be so
ruined.
Enter Ventidius above.
Vent. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too?
Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once,
And
may pursue it still.
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