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Yet they are not join’d: where yond pine does stand, I shall discover all: I’ll bring thee word Straight, how ’tis like to go.
They’re still not in position: where that pine tree stands, I’ll figure everything out: I’ll bring you word Right away, how it’s likely to go.
Swallows have built In Cleopatra’s sails their nests: the augurers Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly, And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts, His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear, Of what he has, and has not.
Swallows have built Their nests in Cleopatra’s sails: the soothsayers Say they don’t know, they can’t tell; they look worried, And don’t dare speak their minds. Antony Is brave, but troubled; and, in turns, His troubled fortune gives him both hope and fear, For what he has, and what he doesn’t have.
All is lost; This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me: My fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder They cast their caps up and carouse together Like friends long lost. Triple-turn’d whore! ’tis thou Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; For when I am revenged upon my charm, I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.
Everything is lost; This treacherous Egyptian has betrayed me: My fleet has surrendered to the enemy; and over there They’re throwing their hats up and partying together Like old friends reunited. Triple-faced whore! It’s you Who’ve sold me to this beginner; and my heart Is at war only with you. Tell them all to run; For when I get my revenge on my enchantress, I’ll have done everything. Tell them all to run; go away.
O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more: Fortune and Antony part here; even here Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark’d, That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d I am: O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,-- Whose eye beck’d forth my wars, and call’d them home; Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,-- Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose, Beguiled me to the very heart of loss. What, Eros, Eros!
O sun, I’ll never see you rise again: Fortune and Antony part ways here; even right here We shake hands. Is this what it’s all come to? The hearts That followed me like loyal dogs, to whom I gave My favors, are now melting and giving their love To blooming Caesar; and this tree is stripped of bark, The one that was taller than all the rest. I’ve been betrayed: O this deceitful soul of Egypt! This deadly spell,-- Whose eyes called me to battle, and brought me back home; Whose chest was my crown, my main goal,-- Like a true gypsy, has tricked me into total loss. What, Eros, Eros!
Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
Ah, you enchantress! Go away!
Why is my lord enraged against his love?
Why is my lord so angry with his love?
Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving, And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee, And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians: Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown For poor’st diminutives, for doits; and let Patient Octavia plough thy visage up With her prepared nails.
Get lost, or I’ll give you what you deserve, And spoil Caesar’s victory. Let him take you, And lift you up in front of the cheering crowd: Follow his chariot, like the worst example Of all your sex; be shown as the most monstrous, For the smallest change, and let Patient Octavia scratch your face With her prepared nails.
’Tis well thou’rt gone, If it be well to live; but better ’twere Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death Might have prevented many. Eros, ho! The shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me, Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage: Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ the moon; And with those hands, that grasp’d the heaviest club, Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die: To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall Under this plot; she dies for’t. Eros, ho!
It’s good that you’re gone, If it’s good to live; but better if You had fallen victim to my rage, because one death Could have stopped many. Eros, come! The poison shirt of Nessus is on me: teach me, Hercules, my ancestor, your anger: Let me place Lichas on the moon’s horns; And with the same hands that held the heavy club, Conquer my noblest self. The witch shall die: She sold me to the young Roman boy, and now I fall To this scheme; she dies for it. Eros, come!