Be any thing but a name, she lives in me;
For by my self (an oath to me more dreadful
Than Stix is to your gods) weak Ptolomy dead,
And Cæsar (both being in my toil) remov'd,
The poorest Rascals that are in my Camp
Shall in my presence quench their lustful heat
In thee, and young Arsino, while I laugh
To hear you howl in vain:
I deride those gods,
That you think can protect you.