No More Learning

Put colour in thy cheek.
EROS. The gods withhold me!
Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,
Though enemy, lost aim and could not?
ANTONY. Eros,
Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see
Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down
His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd
To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat
Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded
His baseness that ensued?
EROS. I would not see't.
ANTONY. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cur'd.
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
Most useful for thy country.
EROS. O, sir, pardon me!
ANTONY. When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then
To do this when I bade thee?
Do it at once,
Or thy precedent services are all
But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and come.
EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance,
Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.
ANTONY. Lo thee! [Turning from him]
EROS. My sword is drawn.
ANTONY. Then let it do at once
The thing why thou hast drawn it.
EROS. My dear master,
My captain and my emperor, let me say,
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.
ANTONY. 'Tis said, man; and farewell.
EROS. Farewell, great chief.