Leave The Fishing-rod, Great General, To Us

And Make Death Proud To Take Us.

My Honour Was Not Yielded, But Conquered Merely.

Leave The Fishing-rod, Great General, To Us Sovereigns Of Pharos And Canopus. Your Game Is Cities And Kings And Continents.

All Strange And Terrible Events Are Welcome, But Comforts We Despise.

[at Marc Antony's Tomb:] Nothing Could Part Us In Life, But Now In Death We Are Likely To Change Places, You The Roman Lying Here In Egyptian Soil, And I, Helpless Woman That I Am, Being Buried In Italy.