William Shakespeare

ANTONIO E CLEOPATRA

No more, but e'en a woman, and commanded

By such poor passion as the maid that milks

And does the meanest chares.

It were for me

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;

To tell them that this world did equal theirs

Till they had stol'n our jewel.

All's but naught;

Patience is scottish, and impatience does

Become a dog that's mad: then is it sin

To rush into the secret house of death,

Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?

What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!

My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,

Our lamp is spent, it's out!

Good sirs, take heart:

We'll bury him; and then, what's brave,what's noble,

Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us.

Come, away:

This case of that huge spirit now is cold:

Ah, women, women! come; we have no friend

But resolution, and the briefest end.