O, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now?

Cleopatra
O, Charmian,
Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse?
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demi-Atlas of this Earth, the arm
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
Or murmuring “Where's my serpent of old Nile?”
For so he calls me.

Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch.

Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison. Think on me
That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life.
Enter Alexas from Antony.
Alexas
Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
Cleopatra
How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
Yet coming from him, that great med'cine hath
With his tinct gilded thee.
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
Alexas
Last thing he did, dear queen,
He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses—
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.
Cleopatra
Mine ear must pluck it thence.
Alexas
“Good friend,” quoth he,
—Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
To mend the petty present, I will piece
Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the East,
Say thou, shall call her mistress. So he nodded
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke
Was beastly dumbed by him.
Cleopatra
What, was he sad, or merry?
Alexas
Like to the time o' th' year between th' extremes
Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.
Cleopatra
O, well-divided disposition!—Note him,
Note him, good Charmian, 'tis the man! But note him:
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay
In Egypt with his joy; but between both.
O, heavenly mingle!—Be'st thou sad or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes,
So does it no man's else.