Monologue

Cleopatra Monologue from John Dryden

From John Dryden by All for Love

female · anguished · 45 sec

No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. Go; leave me, soldier : leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry--She's dead. The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up, As I had never been.

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