Vent. I must not, sir.

Ant. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?
To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches
From the ill tongues of men?

Vent. Who shall guard mine,
For living after you?

Ant. Say, I command it.

Vent. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves
And need no living witness.

Ant. Thou hast loved me,
And fain I would reward thee. I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death,
To make thee friends with Cæsar.

Vent. Thank your kindness.
You said I loved you; and in recompense,
You bid me turn a traitor: Did I think
You would have used me thus?—that I should die
With a hard thought of you?

Ant. Forgive me, Roman.
Since I have heard of Cleopatra’s death,
My reason bears no rule upon my tongue,
But lets my thoughts break all at random out.
I’ve thought better; do not deny me twice.

Vent. By Heaven I will not.
Let it not be to outlive you.

Ant. Kill me first,
And then die thou; for ’tis but just thou serve
Thy friend before thyself.

Vent. Give me your hand.
We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!—[Embrace
Methinks that word’s too cold to be my last:
Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend!
That’s all—
I will not make a business of a trifle;
And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you;
Pray turn your face.

Ant. I do: strike home, be sure.

Vent. Home as my sword will reach.

[Kills himself.

Ant. Oh, thou mistak’st;
That wound was not of thine; give it me back;
Thou robb’st me of my death.

Vent. I do indeed;
But think ’tis the first time I e’er deceived you,
If that may plead my pardon.—And you, gods,
Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured,
Rather than kill my friend.

[Dies.

Ant. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death!
My queen and thou have got the start of me,
And I’m the lag of honour.—Gone so soon?
Is Death no more? he used him carelessly,
With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked,
Ran to the door, and took him in his arms,
As who should say—You’re welcome at all hours,
A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him;
For all the learned are cowards by profession.
’Tis not worth
My further thought; for death, for aught I know,
Is but to think no more. Here’s to be satisfied.

[Falls on his sword.

[Trampling within.

[Rises upon his knees.