(they apply the aspics)
Cleopatra. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins;
I go with such a will to find my lord,
That we shall quickly meet.
A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,
And now ’tis at my head: my eyelids fail
And my dear love is vanished in a mist.
Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him,
And lay me on his breast—Caesar, thy worst;
Now part us if thou canst.