ANTONY.
You’ll heat my blood. No more.
CLEOPATRA.
You can do better yet, but this is meetly.
ANTONY.
Now, by my sword—
CLEOPATRA.
And target. Still he mends.
But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.
ANTONY.
I’ll leave you, lady.
CLEOPATRA.
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it;
Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it;
That you know well. Something it is I would—
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.
ANTONY.
But that your royalty
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
For idleness itself.
CLEOPATRA.
’Tis sweating labour
To bear such idleness so near the heart
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me,
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
Sit laurel victory, and smooth success
Be strewed before your feet!
ANTONY.
Let us go. Come.
Our separation so abides and flies
That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away!
[Exeunt.]