ACT IV. SCENE I.
Enter Antony and Dolabella.
Dola. Why would you shift it from yourself, on me?
Can you not tell her, you must part?
Ant. I cannot.
I could pull out an eye, and bid it go,
And t'other should not weep. Oh, Dolabella,
How many deaths are in this word, depart!
I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:
One look of hers would thaw me into tears,
And I should melt, till I were lost again.
Dola. Then let Ventidius;
He's rough by nature.
Ant. Oh, he'll speak too harshly;
He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.
Dola. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould,
That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure,
Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes,
And robs me of my manhood. I should speak
So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart,
She'd not believe it earnest.
Ant. Therefore,—therefore
Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me;
And when thou speak'st, (but let it first be long)
Take off the edge from every sharper sound,
And let our parting he as gently made,
As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this?
Dola. What you have said, so sinks into my soul,
That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.
Ant. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell.
I sent her word to meet you.[Goes to the door, and comes back.
I forgot;
Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine:
Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,
If I have power with Cæsar.—O, be sure
To think on that.