“At vulgus infidum et meretrix retso
Perjura cedit; diffurgiunt cadis
Cum face siccatis amici
Ferre jugum pariter dolosi.”
“Fie on thee, Antony! hast thou, the veteran of a thousand fields of Mars and Venus, hast thou been cheated by the honeyed words? the last stake was a heavy one, by Hercules! That crown, for which great Julius fell, was worth a higher price than a glance of the brightest eye that ever beamed with a woman’s tenderness. Fie on’t! ’twas boy’s play—boy’s play! but to-morrow—be the gods propitious—Soh! ’tis the palace gate at last, and swart Melancthon at the portals. What ho, Melancthon! Bestir thee, varlet! Say to Cleopatra, Marcus Antonius sends her greeting; and never will he rest till he be where she tarries, be that where it may!”
“Now may the gods avert!” muttered the trembling slave.
“What mutterest thou then? Begone, and speed my bidding, else will I make thee messenger to Hades! Where is the fair Egyptian?”
“She is not, Antony,” faltered the trembling Ethiopian, avoiding with the wonted superstition of the day, the usage of words deemed ominous.
“Is not! What mean’st thou, paltering with thy double speeches?”
“Mortua est—she is dead!” he cried, mustering all his resolution, and then, as if fearing the wrath of the triumvir, fled hastily into the palace.