Is waged for the world’s self; it makes decisive
Who’s destinied world-master—Antony,
Wencher and trencherman, or else Octavian
Who’s empty of his merit when he swears
That he was never drunken in his life.
There’ll be a pretty buffet-bout, and yet
It may be that your wish be not fulfilled,
That Death may pass me with unbloodied sword.
Mar.
My wish! ’Tis well! My wish—then it is good.