Cleo. Could you not beg
An hour's admittance to his private ear?
Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds;
And yet foreknows no hospitable inn
Is near to succour hunger,
Eats his fill, before his painful march:
So would I feed a while my famished eyes
Before we part; for I have far to go,
If death be far, and never must return.
Ventidius, with Octavia, behind.
Vent. From hence you may discover—Oh, sweet, sweet!
Would you indeed? the pretty hand in earnest?
Dola. I will, for this reward.[Takes her hand.
Draw it not back,
'Tis all I e'er will beg.
Vent. They turn upon us.
Octav. What quick eyes has guilt!
Vent. Seem not to have observed them, and go on.
Dola. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius?
Vent. No.
I sought him; but I heard that he was private,
None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.