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.

⁠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 here⁠28
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 use⁠32
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?