MARK ANTONY: Nay, nay, Octavia, not only...

MARK ANTONY: Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that—

That were excusable, that, and thousands more

Of semblable import—but he hath wag’d

New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it

To public ear;

Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not

But pay me terms of honor, cold and sickly

He vented them, most narrow measure lent me;

When the best hint was given him, he not took’t,

Or did it from his teeth.

OCTAVIA: O my good lord,

Believe not all, or if you must believe,

Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,

If this division chance, ne’er stood between,

Praying for both parts.

The good gods will mock me presently,

When I shall pray, “O, bless my lord and husband!”

Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud,

“O, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother,

Prays, and destroys the prayer, no midway

’Twixt these extremes at all.

MARK ANTONY: Gentle Octavia,

Let your best love draw to that point which seeks

Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honor,

I lose myself; better I were not yours

Than yours so branchless. But as you requested,

Yourself shall go between ’s. The mean time, lady,

I’ll raise the preparation of a war

Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste;

So your desires are yours.

OCTAVIA: Thanks to my lord.

The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,

Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be

As if the world should cleave, and that slain men

Should solder up the rift.

MARK ANTONY: When it appears to you where this begins,

Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults

Can never be so equal that your love

Can equally move with them. Provide your going,

Choose your own company, and command what cost

Your heart has mind to.

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