ANTONY.
Now, by my sword,--

CLEOPATRA.
And target.--Still he mends;
But this is not the best:--look, pr'ythee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.

ANTONY.
I'll leave you, lady.

CLEOPATRA.
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part,--but that's not it;
Sir, you and I have lov'd,--but there's not it;
That you know well: something it is I would,--
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.

ANTONY.
But that your royalty
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
For idleness itself.

CLEOPATRA.
'Tis sweating labour
To bear such idleness so near the heart
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;