Thou join'st us well, my love!
Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains,
Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword,
And mountain tops pared off each other blow,
To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess!
Let Caesar spread his subtile nets; like Vulcan,
In thy embraces I would be beheld
By heaven and earth at once;
And make their envy what they meant their sport.
Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,
With awful state, regardless of their frowns,
As their superior god.
There's no satiety of love in thee:
Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring
Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,
And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;
And I grow rich by giving.

_Enter_ VENTIDIUS, _and stands apart._

_Alex._ O, now the danger's past, your general comes!
He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs;
But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on,
As envying your success.

_Ant._ Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me:
He never flattered me in any vice,
But awes me with his virtue: even this minute,
Methinks, he has a right of chiding me.
Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence;
It checks too strong upon me. [_Exeunt the rest._
[_As_ ANTONY _is going,_ VENTIDIUS _pulls him by
the robe._

_Vent._ Emperor!

_Ant._ 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me. [_Looking back._

_Vent._ But this one hearing, emperor.

_Ant._ Let go
My robe; or, by my father Hercules--

_Vent._ By Hercules' father, that's yet greater,
I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

_Ant._ Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here,
And I'll return. [_Exit._

_Vent._ I am waning in his favour, yet I love him;
I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;
And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him;
His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes,
As would confound their choice to punish one,
And not reward the other.

_Enter_ ANTONY.

_Ant._ We can conquer,
You see, without your aid.
We have dislodged their troops;
They look on us at distance, and, like curs
'Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off,
And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.
Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,
Lie breathless on the plain.

_Vent._ 'Tis well; and he,
Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more.
Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain
An easier peace, while Caesar