 | Antony and Cleopatra |  |
SCENE I.
Cleopatra, Charmian, and Iras.Cleo.
O, These leaden-footed messengers! will
they never arrive? Have earth and
ocean conspired to shut us in from all tidings?
I climb the pyramids, and look over the causeways
leading to Pelusium; I ascend the Pharos, and strain
my eyes to the verge of the world; I take the promontories
for fleets, and the white vapours for
sails—but no vessel comes! The land sends no post,
the sea no pinnace, to tell where their lord and my
lord is gone!
Why have ye brought in these obtruders on me?
1st Wom.
Madam, they leave their food, and
pine in corners, and droop like over-charged
flowers, but when you are present.
Cleo.
Alas, the dear ones!—what can I do for them?
We but reflect discomforts on each other.
They serve to shew, that I am unhusbanded;
And I, that they are unfather'd!
O, my twin-stars, must all our sports and pleasantries,
Y. Cleo.
My brother and I, madam, have been
hunting for our playfellow through all the chambers
and galleries; and when we could not find
him, we sat down and cried together.
Cleo.
Ay, there I should have been companion'd with ye.
Tears, tears, my precious orphans, are an office,
In which I would have born ye faithful fellowship.
Alex.
But, will our father never come back?—
Shall we never have a father again, madam?
Cleo.
No, no. He thinks you homely and deform'd;
And says you are misbegotten.
Y. Cleo.
Don't believe it, mother. He loves us
better than if we were all made up of diamonds.
Cleo.
How should he chuse?—Yes, you two are the links
Of love and life, by which I yet depend
To draw and bind him to me.
Miriam, prepare the chariot for my princes;
Give them a daily airing on the road
By which their mighty father should return:
The gods, by them, may send us happier issues.
[Exeunt Children with their Attendants.
Charm.
You know not, my mistress, how
much grief and sickness have changed you from
yourself.
Cleo.
Will these messengers never come?
Char.
If you go on thus, you cannot live to
enjoy the good tidings they shall bring you.
Come, then—
We'll try, a little, to divert this heaviness.
Give me mine angle, we'll along to the river;
There, with enticing baits, I will betray
The tawny fish: my bended hook shall pierce
Their scarlet gills; and, as I draw them up,
I'll think them every one an Antony,
And cry, You are caught, you are caught!
Charm.
Do you remember, madam, how you
shamed him, more than the loss of a battle; when
he, exultingly, drew up a fire-dried mullet, which
your diver had, secretly, fastened to his hook?
Cleo.
Yes, Charmian, yes.
That time—O times!—
I banter'd him out of patience, and laugh'd him
again into temper. I governed the man who governed
the world, like a fish, with mine angle,
and a single—A messenger!
Perhaps, from Italy!—Charmian, your arm.
| Antony and Cleopatra | |