Char. Remember, madam,
He charged you not to grieve.

Cleo. And I’ll obey him.
I have not loved a Roman, not to know
What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion!
For ’tis to that high title I aspire;
And now I’ll not die less. Let dull Octavia
Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate
Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong
For Roman laws to break.

Iras. Will you then die?

Cleo. Why shouldst thou make that question?

Iras. Cæsar is merciful.

Cleo. Let him be so
To those that want his mercy: My poor lord
Made no such covenant with him, to spare me
When he was dead. Yield me to Cæsar’s pride?
What! to be led in triumph through the streets,
A spectacle to base plebeian eyes;
While some dejected friend of Antony’s,
Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters
A secret curse on her who ruined him!
I’ll none of that.

Char. Whatever you resolve,
I’ll follow, even to death.

Iras. I only feared
For you; but more should fear to live without you.

Cleo. Why, now, ’tis as it should be. Quick, my friends,
Despatch; ere this, the town’s in Cæsar’s hands:
My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,
Lest I should be surprised;
Keep him not waiting for his love too long.
You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels;
With them, the wreath of victory I made
(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead:
You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.

Iras. The aspics, madam?

Cleo. Must I bid you twice?

[Exit Charmion and Iras.

Enter Charmion and Iras.

Char. What must be done?

Cleo. Short ceremony, friends;
But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel
Shall crown my hero’s head: he fell not basely,
Nor left his shield behind him.—Only thou
Couldst triumph o’er thyself; and thou alone
Wert worthy so to triumph.

Char. To what end
These ensigns of your pomp and royalty?

Cleo. Dull, that thou art! why ’tis to meet my love;
As when I saw him first, on Cydnus’ bank,
All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned,
I’ll find him once again; my second spousals
Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,
And dress the bride of Antony.

Char. ’Tis done.

Cleo. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place;
For I must conquer Cæsar too, like him,
And win my share of the world.—Hail, you dear relics
Of my immortal love!
O let no impious hand remove you hence:
But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give
His death that peace, which it denied his life.—
Reach me the casket.

Iras. Underneath the fruit
The aspic lies.