dius:
For I'll convey my soul from Caesar's reach,
And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world
Should have a lord, and know whom to obey.
We two have kept its homage in suspence,
And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod,
Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk
Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part.
My torch is out; and the world stands before me,
Like a black desert at the approach of night:
I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on.

_Vent._ I could be grieved,
But that I'll not out-live you: chuse your death;
For, I have seen him in such various shapes,
I care not which I take: I'm only troubled,
The life I bear is worn to such a rag,
'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed,
We threw it from us with a better grace;
That, like two lions taken in the toils,
We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters that inclose us.

_Ant._ I have thought on it.
Ventidius, you must live.

_Vent._ I must not, sir.

_Ant._ Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me?
To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches
From the ill tongues of men?

_Vent._ Who shall guard mine,
For living after you?

_Ant._ Say, I command it.

_Vent._ If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves,
And need no living witness.

_Ant._ Thou hast loved me,
And fain I would reward thee. I must die;
Kill me, and take the merit of my death,
To make thee friends with Caesar.

_Vent._ Thank your kindness.
You said I loved you; and, in recompence,
You bid me turn a traitor:--Did I think
You would have used me thus? that I should die
With a hard thought of you?

_Ant._ Forgive me, Roman.
Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death,
My reason bears no rule upon my tongue,
But lets my thoughts break all at random out.
I've thought better; do not deny me twice.

_Vent._ By heaven I will not.
Let it not be to out-live you.

_Ant._ Kill me first,
And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve
Thy friend, before thyself.

_Vent._ Give me your hand.
We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!-- [_Embrace._
Methinks that word's too cold to be my last:
Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend!
That's all--
I will not make a business of a trifle:
And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you;
Pray turn your face.

_Ant._ I do: strike home, be sure.

_Vent._ Home, as my sword will reach. [_Kills himself._

_Ant._ O thou mistak'st;
That wound was none of thine: give it me