Cleo. That time—O times!—
I laugh'd him out of patience; and that night
I laugh'd him into patience: and next morn, 20
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;
Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword Philippan.
Enter a Messenger.
O! from Italy;
Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, 24
That long time have been barren.
Mess. Madam, madam,—
Cleo. Antony's dead! if thou say so, villain,
Thou kill'st thy mistress; but well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 28
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.
Mess. First, madam, he is well.
Cleo. Why, there's more gold.
But, sirrah, mark, we use 32
To say the dead are well: bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.
Mess. Good madam, hear me.
Cleo. Well, go to, I will; 36
But there's no goodness in thy face; if Antony
Be free and healthful, so tart a favour
To trumpet such good tidings! if not well,
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes, 40
Not like a formal man.
Mess. Will 't please you hear me?
22 tires: head-dresses
23 his sword Philippan; cf. n.
38 so tart a favour: so sour an appearance
41 formal: ordinary
