ACT 4, SCENE 8: Under the walls of Alexandria.

[Alarum. Enter MARK ANTONY, in a march; SCARUS,
with others]

MARK ANTONY: We have beat him to his camp: run one before,
And let the queen know of our gests. To-morrow,
Before the sun shall see 's, we'll spill the blood
That has to-day escaped. I thank you all;
For doughty-handed are you, and have fought                                  [5]
Not as you served the cause, but as 't had been
Each man's like mine; you have shown all Hectors.
Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,
Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears
Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss                        [10]
The honour'd gashes whole.


                                         Give me thy hand

[Enter CLEOPATRA, attended]

To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,
Make her thanks bless thee.


                                    O thou day o' the world,
Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there                              [15]
Ride on the pants triumphing!

CLEOPATRA:                Lord of lords!
O infinite virtue, comest thou smiling from
The world's great snare uncaught?

MARK ANTONY:               My nightingale,
We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey
Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we            [20]
A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can
Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand:
Kiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had                                                     [25]
Destroy'd in such a shape.

CLEOPATRA:                     I'll give thee, friend,
An armour all of gold; it was a king's.

MARK ANTONY: He has deserved it, were it carbuncled
Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand:
Through Alexandria make a jolly march;                                            [30]
Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them:
Had our great palace the capacity
To camp this host, we all would sup together,
And drink carouses to the next day's fate,
Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,                                            [35]
With brazen din blast you the city's ear;
Make mingle with rattling tabourines;
That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,
Applauding our approach.


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