O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.
(applying another asp to her arm)
What should I stay— (dies).
Charmian. In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close;
And golden Phœbus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry;
I’ll mend it, and then play.
(enter the Guard, rushing in)