CLEOPATRA.

So Fulvia told me.

I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her: Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling; and let it look Like perfect honor.

ANTONY.

You'll heat my blood--no more.

CLEOPATRA.

You can do better yet; but this is meetly.

ANTONY.

Now, by my sword--

CLEOPATRA.

And target--still he mends: But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe!

This is, indeed, most "excellent dissembling;" but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that return of tenderness which secures the power she has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell.

Forgive me!

Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honor calls you hence, Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the G.o.ds go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success Be strew'd before your feet!

Finer still are the workings of her variable mind and lively imagination, after Antony's departure; her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such things as s.p.a.ce and time; and high treason to her sovereign power, to dare to remember what she chooses to forget

Give me to drink mandragora, That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

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.

Met'st thou my posts?

ALEXAS.

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers: Why do you send so thick?

CLEOPATRA.

Who's born that day When I forget to send to Antony, Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.

Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so?

CHARMIAN.

O that brave Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.

Be chok'd with such another emphasis!

Say, the brave Antony.

CHARMIAN.

The valiant Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.

By Isis, I will give thee b.l.o.o.d.y teeth, If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men!

CHARMIAN.

By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you.

CLEOPATRA.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. But, come away-- Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt.

We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite amus.e.m.e.nt with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble through the streets at night, and bandy ribald jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the same authority, we know that they were accustomed to live on the most familiar terms with their attendants and the companions of their revels. To these traits we must add, that with all her violence, perverseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled a capability for warm affections and kindly feeling, or rather what we should call in these days, a const.i.tutional _good-nature_; and was lavishly generous to her favorites and dependents. These characteristics we find scattered through the play; they are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare, but he has made the finest use of them in his delineation of manners. Hence the occasional freedom of her women and her attendants, in the midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most natural and consistent: hence, too, their devoted attachment and fidelity, proved even in death. But as ill.u.s.trative of Cleopatra's disposition, perhaps the finest and most characteristic scene in the whole play, is that in which the messenger arrives from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage with Octavia.

She perceives at once with quickness that all is not well, and she hastens to antic.i.p.ate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of being disappointed. Her impatience to know what she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she gradually works herself up into a state of excitement, and at length into fury, is wrought out with a force of truth which makes us recoil.

CLEOPATRA.

Antony's dead!

If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress.

But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.

MESSENGER.

First, madam, he is well.

CLEOPATRA.

Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use To say, the dead are well: bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat.

MESSENGER.

Good madam, hear me.

CLEOPATRA.

Well, go to, I will.

But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor To trumpet such good tidings? If not well, Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes.

MESSENGER.