Cæsar. You are deceiv'd in all this,
Upon my life you are, 'tis your much tenderness.
Cleo. No, no, I love not that way; you are cozen'd:
I love with as much ambition as a Conquerour,
And where I love, will triumph.
Cæsar. So you shall:
My heart shall be the Chariot that shall bear ye,
All I have won shall wait upon ye: By the gods
The bravery of this womans mind, has fired me:
Dear Mistress shall I but this night?—