Direct reading · Original
Section 1173
Passage 1 of 2 · Section metadata unavailable
Find a section
Choose a paragraph to open its bounded reader passage.
Current position: Loading section metadata…
Find a section
Choose a paragraph to open its bounded reader passage.
Loading source sections…
Cleo.
No more but in a Woman, and commanded
By such poore passion, as the Maid that Milkes,
And doe's the meanest chares. It were for me,
To throw my Scepter at the iniurious Gods,
To tell them that this World did equall theyrs,
Till they had stolne our Iewell. All's but naught:
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a Dogge that's mad: Then is it sinne,
To rush into the secret house of death,
Ere death dare come to vs. How do you Women?
What, what good cheere? Why how now Charmian?
My Noble Gyrles? Ah Women, women! Looke
Our Lampe is spent, it's out. Good sirs, take heart,
Wee'l bury him: And then, what's braue, what's Noble,
Let's doo't after the high Roman fashion,