Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish, A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A towered citadel, a pendent rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon’t that nod unto the world And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs; They are black vesper’s pageants. . . . That which is now a horse even with a thought The rack disdains, and makes it indistinct As water is in water. . . . Here I am Antony, Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave. I made these wars for Egypt, and the Queen— Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine, Which whilst it was mine had annexed unto’t A million more, now lost—she, Eros, has Packed cards with Caesar, and false-played my glory Unto an enemy’s triumph. Nay, weep not, gentle Eros. There is left us Ourselves to end ourselves.
Posted on: Mon, 30 Sep 2013 17:53:19 +0000
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