All language subtitles for National Theatre Live Antony & Cleopatra 1080p Webrip-PoNg

(HUM OF CONVERSATION)

(WIND WHISTLING)

(♪ VIOLIN PLAYS MELANCHOLIC MELODY)

She shall be buried by her Antony.

No grave upon the earth
shall clip in it a pair so famous.

High events as these
strike those that make them.

And their story is no less in pity than his glory
which brought them to be lamented.

Our army shall in solemn show attend this funeral,
and then to Rome.

Nay, but this dotage of our Antony's
o'erflowed the measure.

Those his goodly eyes, that o'er the files and musters
of the war once glowed like plated Mars

then bent, and turned the office
and devotion of their view upon a tawny front.

His captain's heart, which in the scuffles
of great fights oft burst the buckles on his breast

reneged all temper and became
the bellows and the fan to cool a gipsy's lust.

How came it then that we did see the triple pillar
of the world transformed into a strumpet's fool?

Behold and see.

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

– News, my good lord, from Rome.
– Grates me! The sum?

Nay, hear them, Antony.

Fulvia perchance is angry,

or who knows if the scarce-bearded Caesar
have not sent his powerful mandate to you.

'Do this, or this. Take in that kingdom, and
enfranchise that. Perform it, or else we damn thee.'

– How, my love!
– Perchance? Nay, and most like.

You must not stay here longer. Your dismission
is come from Caesar, therefore hear it, Antony.

Where's Fulvia's process?
Caesar's I would say. Both?

Call in the messengers.
As I am Egypt's queen, thou blushest, Antony,

and that blood of thine is Caesar's homager.

Else so thy cheek pays shame
when shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds.

The messengers.

Let Rome in Tiber melt,
and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall!

Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay.

Our dungy earth alike feeds beast as man.

The nobleness of life is to do thus...

..when such a mutual pair
and such a twain can do't.

In which I bind, on pain of punishment,
the world to know we stand up peerless.

– Excellent falsehood.
– (CHUCKLES)

Why, did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
I'll seem the fool I am not.

– Antony will be himself
– But stirred by Cleopatra.

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,
let's not confound the time with conference harsh.

There's not a minute of our lives
should stretch without some pleasure now.

– What sport tonight?
– Hear the ambassador.

Fie, wrangling queen!

Whom everything becomes,
to chide, to laugh, to weep.

Whose every passion fully strives to make itself,
in thee, fair and admired.

No messenger but thine.

And all alone to-night we'll wander through the streets
and note the qualities of people.

Come, my queen.
Last night you did desire it.

Speak not to us.

(CLEOPATRA LAUGHING)

Iras, where's the soothsayer
that you praised so to the Queen?

– Soothsayer!
– Your will?

Is this the one? Is't you that know things?

In nature's infinite book of secrecy
a little I can read.

Show them your hand.

Bring in the banquet quickly.
Wine enough Cleopatra's health to drink.

Good madam, give me good fortune.

– I make not, but foresee.
– Pray then, foresee me one.

You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

– She means in flesh
– Nay, you shall paint when you are old.

– Wrinkles forbid!
– Vex not her prescience. Be attentive.

You shall be more beloving than beloved.

– I had rather heat my liver with drinking.
– Nay, hear her.

– You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.
– O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.

You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune
than that which is to approach.

Then belike my children shall have no names.
Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?

If every of your wishes had a womb,
and fertile every wish, a million.

– Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.
– Come, tell me mine. We'll know all our fortunes.

Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight,
will be drunk to bed.

– Your fortunes are alike
– But how? But how?

– Give me particulars.
– I have said.

Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

Well, if you were but an inch of fortune
better than I...

– (SINGSONG) ..where would you choose it?
– Not in my husband's nose.

– Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people.
– Amen.

– Hush, here comes Antony.
– Not he, the Queen.

– Saw you my lord?
– No, lady.

– Was he not here?
– No, madam.

He was disposed to mirth, but on the sudden
a Roman thought hath struck him.

– Enobarbus.
– Madam?

Seek him, and bring him hither.

– Where's Iras?
– Here, at your service.

– Your lord approaches.
– We will not look upon him. Go with us.

Fulvia, thy wife, first came into the field.

– Against my brother Lucius?
– Ay. But soon that war had end,

and the time's state made friends of them,
jointing their force 'gainst Caesar,

whose better issue in the war from Italy,
upon the first encounter drave them.

– Well, what worst?
– The nature of bad news infects the teller.

When it concerns the fool or coward. On!
Things that are past are done with me.

'Tis thus. Who tells me true, though in his tale
lie death, I hear him as he flattered.

Labienus, this is stiff news,
hath with his Parthian force extended Asia.

From Euphrates his conquering banner shook,
from Syria to Lydia, and to Ionia, whilst...

– Antony, thou wouldst say.
– O, my lord.

Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue.

Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome,
rail thou in Fulvia's phrase,

and taunt my faults with such full licence
as both truth and malice have power to utter.

O, then we bring forth weeds, when our quick minds
lie still, and our ills told us is as our earing.

Hm? How the news? Speak there.

– Hm.
– Hm?

– Hm.
– Mm-mm.

– Fare thee well awhile.
– At your noble pleasure.

– The woman from Sicyon...
– Is there such a one?

– She stays upon your will.
– Let her approach.

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
or lose myself in dotage.

Well, what are you?

Fulvia, thy wife, is dead.

– Where died she?
– In Sicyon.

Her length of sickness, with what else
more serious importeth thee to know, this bears.

Forbear me.

There's a great spirit gone.

Thus did I desire it. What our contempt
doth often hurl from us we wish it ours again.

The present pleasure by revolution lowering,
does become the opposite of itself.

She's good, being gone.
The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.

I must from this enchanting queen break off.

Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
my idleness doth hatch.

How now, Enobarbus!

(WOMAN SHRIEKS AND LAUGHS)

What, er... What's your pleasure, sir?

– I must with haste from hence.
– Why?

Then we kill all our women.

We see how mortal an unkindness is to them.
If they suffer our departure, death is the word.

I must be gone.

Under a compelling occasion let women die.
It were a pity to cast them away for nothing.

Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this,
dies instantly.

I have seen her die twenty times
on far poorer occasion.

I do think there is mettle in death, which commits some
loving act on her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

– She is cunning past man's thought.
– Alack, sir, no.

Her passions are made of nothing
but the finest part of pure love.

You cannot call her winds and waters
sighs and tears.

They are greater storms and tempests
than almanacs can report.

Would I had never seen her.

O, sir, then you'd left unseen
a wonderful piece of work.

Wa-hey, huh? Which not to have been blest withal
would have discredited your travel.

– Fulvia is dead.
– Sir?

– Fulvia is dead.
– Fulvia?

– Dead.
– Why, then, give the gods a thankful sacrifice.

When it pleases the deities to take the wife of a man
from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth,

comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out,
there are members to make new.

If there were no other women but Fulvia, then indeed,
you had a cut, and the case to be lamented.

But this grief is crowned with consolation.
Your old smock brings forth a new petticoat.

The tears live in an onion
that should water this sorrow.

The business she hath broached in the state
cannot endure my absence.

And the business you have broached here
cannot be without you.

Especially that of Cleopatra's,
which wholly depends on your abode.

– Huh?
– No more light answers.

Let our officers have notice what we purpose.

I shall break the cause of our expedience
to the Queen, and get her leave to part.

For not alone the death of Fulvia,
with more urgent touches, do strongly speak to us,

but the letters too of many our contriving friends
in Rome petition us at home.

Sextus Pompeius hath given the dare to Caesar
and commands the empire of the sea.

Our slippery people, whose love is never linked
to the deserver till his deserts are past,

begin to throw Pompey the Great
and all his dignities upon his son.

Who, high in name and power, higher than both
in blood and life, stands up for the main soldier,

whose qualities going on,
the sides of the world may danger.

Hm. Much is breeding.

Say our pleasure, to such whose place is under us,
requires our quick remove from hence.

I shall do it, sir.

– Where is he?
– I did not see him since.

See where he is, who's with him, what he does.
I did not send you.

If you find him sad, say I am dancing.

If in mirth, report that I am sudden sick.
Quick, and return.

Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,

you do not hold the method
to enforce the like from him.

– What should I do, I do not?
– In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing.

– Thou teachest like a fool, the way to lose him.
– Tempt him not so too far. I wish, forbear.

In time we hate that which we often fear.
But here comes Antony.

I am sick and sullen.

I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose.

Help me away, dear Charmian, I shall fall. It cannot
be thus long, the sides of nature will not sustain it.

– Now, my dearest queen...
– Pray you, stand farther from me.

– What's the matter?
– I know by that same eye there's some good news.

What says the married woman? You may go?
Would she had never given you leave to come.

Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here.
I have no power upon you, hers you are.

The gods best know...

Oh, never was a queen so mightily betrayed.
Yet at the first I saw the treasons planted.

– Cleopatra...
– Why should I think you can be mine and true,

though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
who have been false to Fulvia?

Riotous madness, to be entangled with those
mouth-made vows which break themselves in swearing.

Most sweet queen...

Pray you seek no colour for your going,
just bid farewell and go.

When you sued staying,
then was the time for words, no going then.

Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
bliss in our brows' bent.

None our parts so poor,
but was a race of heaven.

They are so still, or thou, the greatest soldier
of the world, art turned the greatest liar.

How now, lady?

I would I had thy inches!
Thou shouldst know there were a heart in Egypt.

Hear me, queen!

The strong necessity of time commands our services
awhile, but my full heart remains in use with you.

Our Italy shines over with civil swords.

Sextus Pompeius makes his approaches
to the port of Rome.

Equality of two domestic powers
breed scrupulous faction.

The hated, grown to strength,
are newly grown to love.

The condemned Pompey, rich in his father's honour,
creeps apace, into the hearts

of such as have not thrived upon the present state,
whose numbers threaten

and quietness, grown sick of rest,
would purge by any desperate change.

My more particular, and that which most with you
should safe my going, is Fulvia's death.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
it does from childishness.

Can Fulvia die?

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

She's dead, my queen.

Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure
read the garboils she awaked.

At the last, best,
see when and where she died.

O most false love!

Where be the sacred vials
thou shouldst fill with sorrowful water?

Now I see, I see, in Fulvia's death
how mine received shall be.

Quarrel no more, but be prepared
to know the purposes I bear

which are, or cease, as you shall give the advice.

By the fire that quickens the slime on the Nile,
I go from hence thy soldier, servant,

making peace or war as thou affects.

Cut my lace, Charmian, come.

But let it be, I am quickly ill and well.
So Antony loves.

My precious queen, forbear, and give true evidence
to his love, which stands an honourable trial.

So Fulvia told me.
I prithee, 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 make it look like perfect honour.

– You'll heat my blood. No more.
– You can do better yet, but this is meetly.

– Now, by my sword...
– ..and target. Still he mends, but this is not the best.

Look, prithee, Charmian, how this Herculean Roman
does become the carriage of his chafe.

– I'll leave you, lady.
– Courteous lord, one word.

Sir...

..You and I must part.

No, that's not it.

Sir, you and I have loved, but there's not it.
That you know well.

Something it is I would... Oh, my oblivion
is a very Antony, and I am all forgotten.

But that your royalty holds idleness your subject,
I should take you for idleness itself.

'Tis sweating labour to bear such idleness
so near the heart as Cleopatra this.

But, sir, forgive me, since my becomings kill me
when they do not eye well to you.

Your honour calls you hence. Therefore be deaf
to my unpitied folly, and all the gods go with you.

Upon your sword sit laurel victory,
and smooth success be strewed before your feet.

Let us go. Come.

Our separation so abides and flies
that thou, residing here, goes yet with me,

and I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.

Away.

– Is Caesar with Antony prized so slight?
– Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony,

he comes too short of that great property
which still should go with Antony.

I am full sorry that he approves the common body
who thus speak of him at Rome.

You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know, it is
not Caesar's natural vice to hate our great competitor.

From Alexandria this is the news.

He fishes, drinks,
and wastes the lamps of night in revel,

is not more manlike than Cleopatra,
nor the Queen of Ptolemy more womanly than he,

hardly gave audience,
or vouchsafed to think he had partners.

You shall find there a man who is the abstract
of all faults that all men follow.

I must not think there are evils enough
to darken all his goodness.

His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven,
more fiery by night's blackness,

hereditary, rather than purchased,
what he cannot change, than what he chooses.

You are too indulgent.

Let's grant it is not amiss
to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy...

..to give a kingdom for a mirth,
to sit and keep the turn of tippling with a slave,

to reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
with knaves that smell of sweat.

Say this becomes him, as his composure must be
rare indeed whom these things cannot blemish.

Yet must Antony no way excuse his soils,
when we do bear so great weight in his lightness.

(CHUCKLES)

If he filled his vacancy with his voluptuousness,

full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
call on him for it.

But to confound such time that drums him from his sport
and speaks as loud as his own state and ours

'tis to be chid as we rate boys
who, being mature in knowledge

pawn their experience to their present pleasure
and so rebel to judgment.

Thy biddings have been done, and every hour, most
noble Caesar, thou shalt have report how 'tis abroad.

Pompey is strong at sea, and it appears
he is beloved only of those that have feared Caesar.

To the ports the discontents repair,
and men's reports give him much wronged.

I should have known no less.

This common body,
like to a vagabond flag upon the stream

goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
to rot itself with motion.

One Menas and his crew, famous pirates,
make the sea serve them

which they ear and wound with keels of every kind.

Many hot inroads they make in Italy, the borders
maritime lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt.

No vessel can peep forth
but 'tis as soon taken as seen,

for Pompey's name strikes more
than could his war resisted.

Antony, leave thy lascivious wassails!

When thou once wast beaten from Modena,
where thou slewest Hirtius and Pansa, consuls

at thy heel did famine follow, whom thou fought'st
against, though daintily brought up

with patience more than savages could suffer.

Thou didst drink the stale of horses and the gilded
puddle which beasts would cough at.

On the Alps it is reported, thou didst eat
strange flesh which some did die to look on.

And all this,
it wounds thine honour that I speak it now,

was borne so like a soldier
that thy cheek so much as lanked not.

– 'Tis pity of him.
– Let his shames quickly drive him to Rome.

'Tis time we twain did show ourselves in the field,
and to that end assemble we immediate council.

– Pompey thrives in our idleness.
– Tomorrow, Caesar, I shall be furnished

to inform you rightly both what by sea and land
I can be able to front this present time.

– Till which encounter, it is my business too. Farewell.
– Farewell, my lord.

What you shall know meantime of stirs abroad,
I shall beseech you, sir, to let me be partaker.

Doubt not, sir. I knew it for my bond.

(WAVES LAPPING, GULLS CRYING)

The people love me, and the sea is mine.

My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope
says it will come to the full.

Mark Antony in Egypt sits at dinner,
and will make no wars without doors.

Caesar gets money where he loses hearts.

Lepidus flatters both, of both is flattered,
but he neither loves, nor either cares for him.

Caesar and Lepidus are in the field.
A mighty strength they carry.

– Where have you this? 'Tis false.
– From Silvius, sir.

He dreams. I know they are in Rome together,
looking for Antony.

But all the charms of love, salt Cleopatra,
soften thy waned lip!

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both,
tie up the libertine in a field of feasts.

Keep his brain fuming...
How now, Varrius?

This is most certain that I shall deliver.
Mark Antony is every hour in Rome expected.

I could have given less matter a better ear.

Menas, I did not think this amorous surfeiter
would have donned his helm for such a petty war.

His soldiership is twice the other twain.

But let us rear the higher our opinion

that our stirring can from the lap of Egypt's widow
pluck the ne'er-lust-wearied Antony.

Come, Menas.

(DOOR SLAMS)

– Charmian.
– Madam?

(MOANS)

– Give me to drink mandragora.
– Why, madam?

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.

Now I feed myself most delicious poison.

Think on me, that am with Phoebus' amorous pinches
black and wrinkled deep in time.

Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

How much unlike art thou Mark Antony.

Yet, coming from him,
that great medicine hath with his tinct gilded thee.

How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

Last thing he did, dear queen, he kissed,
the last of many doubled kisses, this orient pearl.

– His speech sticks in my heart.
– Mine ear must pluck it thence.

'Good friend,' quoth he,
'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 shall call her mistress.'

So he nodded
and soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed

who neighed so high than what I would have spoke
was beastly dumbed by him.

What was he, sad or merry?

Like to the time of the year between the extremes
of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.

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 else.

Met'st thou my posts?

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

Who's born that day when I forget to send to Antony
shall die a beggar.

Ink and paper, Charmian.
Welcome, good Euphronius.

– Did I, Charmian, ever love Julius Caesar so?
– O the brave Caesar!

Be choked with such another emphasis!
Say 'the brave Antony'.

O the valiant Caesar!

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth
if thou with Caesar paragon again my man of men.

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

My salad days, when I was green in judgment,
cold in blood, to say as I said then.

But come away, give me ink and paper.

He shall have every day a several greeting,
or I'll unpeople Egypt.

Good Enobarbus,
'tis a worthy deed, and shall become you well

to entreat your captain to soft and gentle speech.

I shall entreat him to answer like himself.

If Caesar move him, let Antony look
over Caesar's head and speak as loud as Mars.

By Jupiter, were I the wearer of Antony's beard,
I would not shave it today.

– 'Tis not a time for private stomaching.
– Every time serves for the matter that is then born in it.

– But small to greater matters must give way.
– Not if the small come first.

Your speech is passion.
But, pray you, stir no embers up.

– Here comes the noble Antony.
– And yonder Caesar.

Noble friends, that which combined us was
most great, and let not a leaner action rend us.

What's amiss, may it be gently heard.

When we debate our trivial difference loud,
we do commit murder in healing wounds.

Then, noble partners,
the rather for I earnestly beseech,

touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
nor curstness grow to the matter.

'Tis spoken well. Were we before our armies,
and to fight, I would do thus.

– Welcome to Rome.
– Thank you.

– Sit.
– Sit, sir.

Nay, then.

I learn you take things ill which are not so,
or being, concern you not.

I must be laughed at, if, or for nothing or a little

I should say myself offended,
and with you chiefly in the world.

More laughed at
that I should once name you derogately

when to sound your name it not concerned me.

My being in Egypt, Caesar, what was't to you?

No more than my residing here at Rome
might be to you in Egypt.

Yet if you there did practise on my state,
your being in Egypt might be my question.

How intend you, 'practised'?

You may be pleased to catch at mine intent
by what did here befall me.

Your wife and brother made wars upon me,
and their contestation was theme for you.

You were the word of war.

You do mistake your business.
My brother never did urge me in his act.

I did enquire it, and have my learning from some
true reports, that drew their swords with you.

Did he not rather discredit my authority with yours,
and make the wars alike against my stomach

having alike your cause?

Of this my letters before did satisfy you.

If you'll patch a quarrel, as matter whole
you have to make it with, it must not be with this.

You praise yourself by laying defects of judgment
to me, but you patched up your excuses.

Not so, not so!
I know you could not lack, I am certain on't,

very necessity of this thought, that I, your partner
in the cause against which he fought,

could not with graceful eyes attend those wars
which fronted mine own peace.

As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another.

The third of the world is yours which with a snaffle
you may pace easy but not such a wife.

Would we had all such wives,
that the men might go to wars with the women.

So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar,
made out of her impatience,

which not wanted shrewdness of policy too,

I grieving grant did you too much disquiet.

For that, you must but say I could not help it.

I wrote to you when rioting in Alexandria.

You did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
did gibe my missive out of audience.

Sir, he fell upon me before he was admitted, then.

Three kings I had newly feasted,
and did want of what I was in the morning.

Next day I told him of myself,
which was as much as to have asked him pardon.

Let this fellow be nothing of our strife.
If we contend, out of our question wipe him.

You have broken the article of your oath,
which you shall never have tongue to charge me with.

– Soft, Caesar.
– No, Lepidus, let him speak.

The honour is sacred which he talks on now,
supposing that I lacked it.

But on, Caesar. The article of my oath.

To lend me arms and aid when I required them,
the which you both denied.

Neglected, rather, and then when poisoned hours
had bound me up from mine own knowledge.

(CHUCKLES)

As nearly as I may, I'll play the penitent to you,

but mine honesty shall not make poor my greatness,
nor my power work without it.

Truth is that Fulvia, to have me out of Egypt,
made wars here,

for which myself, the ignorant motive, do so far ask
pardon as befits mine honour to stoop in such a case.

'Tis noble spoken.

If it might please you to enforce no further
the griefs between ye.

To forget them quite were to remember
that the present need speaks to atone you.

Worthily spoken, Agrippa.

Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant,

you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey,
return it again.

You shall have time to wrangle in
when you have nothing else to do.

Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.

That truth should be silent, I had almost forgot.

– You wrong this presence, therefore speak no more.
– Go to, then. Your considerate stone.

I do not much dislike the matter,
but the manner of his speech.

For it cannot be we shall remain in friendship,
our conditions so differing in their acts.

Yet, if I knew what hoop should hold us staunch,
from edge to edge o'th world I would pursue it.

– Give me leave, Caesar.
– Speak, Agrippa.

Thou hast a sister by the mother's side,
admired Octavia.

– Great Mark Antony is now a widower.
– (LAUGHING) Say not so, Agrippa.

If Cleopatra heard you,
your reproof were well deserved of rashness.

I am not married, Caesar.
Let me hear Agrippa further speak.

To hold you in perpetual amity, to make you brothers,
and to knit your hearts with an unslipping knot...

..take Antony Octavia for his wife, whose beauty
claims no worse a husband than the best of men,

whose virtue and whose general graces
speak that which none else can utter.

By this marriage all little jealousies
which now seem great,

and all great fears, which now import their dangers,
would then be nothing.

Pardon what I have spoke, for 'tis a studied,
not a present thought, by duty ruminated.

Will Caesar speak?

Not till he hears how Antony
is touched with what is spoke already.

What power is in Agrippa,
if I would say, 'Agrippa, be it so', to make this good?

The power of Caesar, and his power unto Octavia.

May I never to this good purpose,
which so fairly shows, dream of impediment.

Let me have you hand.

Further this act of grace,

and from this hour the heart of brothers
govern in our loves and sway our great designs.

There's my hand.

A sister I bequeath you,
whom no brother did ever love so dearly.

Let her live to join our kingdoms and our hearts,
and never fly off our loves again!

Happily, amen.

Amen!

I did not think to draw my sword against Pompey, for he
hath laid strange courtesies and great of late upon me.

I must thank him, only lest my remembrance
suffer ill report. At heel of that, defy him.

Time calls upon us. Of us must Pompey
presently be sought or else he seeks out us.

– Where lies he?
– About the mount Misena.

– What is his strength by land?
– Great and increasing.

– But by sea he is an absolute master.
– So is the fame.

Would we had spoke together!
Haste we on, but,

ere we put ourselves in arms,
dispatch we the business we have talked of.

With most gladness, and do invite you
to my sister's view, whither straight I'll lead you.

– Let us, Lepidus, not lack your company.
– Noble Antony, not sickness should detain me.

Welcome from Egypt, sir.

Half the heart of Caesar,
my honourable friend, Agrippa!

We have cause to be glad
that matters were so well digested.

Whoa!

You stayed well by it in Egypt.

Ay, we did sleep day out of countenance,
and made the night light with drinking.

Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast,
and but twelve persons there. Is this true?

This was but as a fly by an eagle.

We had much more monstrous matter of feast,
which worthily deserved noting.

She's a most triumphant lady,
if report be square to her.

When she first met Mark Antony,
she pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus.

There she appeared indeed,
or my reporter devised well for her.

I will tell you.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
burned on the water.

The poop was beaten gold, purple the sails, and so
perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them.

The oars were silver,
which to the tune of flutes kept stroke,

and made the water which they beat
to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes.

For her own person, it beggared all description.

She did lie in her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue,

o'erpicturing that Venus
where we see the fancy outwork nature.

On each side her stood pretty dimpled boys,
like smiling cupids, with divers-coloured fans,

whose wind did seem to glow the delicate cheeks
which they did cool, and what they undid did.

O, rare for Antony!

Her gentlewomen,
like the Nereides, so many mermaids,

tended her in the eyes,
and made their bends adornings.

At the helm a seeming mermaid steers,

the silken tackle swell with the touches of those
flower-soft hands, that yarely frame the office.

From the barge a strange invisible perfume
hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs.

The city cast her people out upon her, and Antony,
enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone,

whistling to the air, which, but for vacancy, had gone
to gaze on Cleopatra, too, and made a gap in nature.

Rare Egyptian!

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,
invited her to supper.

She replied it should be best
he became her guest, which she entreated.

Our courteous Antony, whom ne'er
the word of 'No' woman heard speak,

being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast

and, for his ordinary, pays his heart
for what his eyes eat only.

Royal wench!

I saw her once hop forty paces through the public street

and, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted

that she did make defect perfection,
and, breathless, pour breath forth.

– Now Antony must leave her utterly.
– Never! He will not.

Age cannot wither her,
nor custom stale her infinite variety.

Other women cloy the appetites they feed,
but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.

For vilest things become themselves in her,
that the holy priests bless her when she is riggish.

If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle the heart
of Antony, Octavia is a blessed lottery to him.

Let us go.

Good Enobarbus.

Make yourself my guest? Whilst you abide here.

Humbly, madam, I thank you..

The world and my great office
will sometimes divide me from your bosom.

All which time before the gods
my knee shall bow my prayers to them for you.

Good night, sir.

My Octavia, read not my blemishes in the world's report.

I have not kept my square, but that to come
shall all be done by the rule.

– Good night, dear lady.
– Good night.

Now, Eros. You do wish yourself in Egypt?

– Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither.
– If you can, your reason?

I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue.
But yet hie you to Egypt again.

Say to me, whose fortunes shall rise higher,
Caesar's or mine?

Caesar's.
Therefore, Antony, stay not by his side.

Thy daemon, that thy spirit which keeps thee,

is noble, courageous, high unmatchable,
where Caesar's is not.

But near him, thy angel becomes afeard,
as being o'erpowered.

Therefore make space enough between you.

– Speak this no more.
– To none but thee. No more but when to thee.

If thou dost play with him at any game,
thou art sure to lose

and of that natural luck he beats thee 'gainst the odds.

Thy lustre thickens when he shines by.

I say again, thy spirit is all afraid
to govern thee near him.

– But, he away, 'tis noble.
– Get thee gone.

He hath spoken true. Noble Caesar,
be it art or hap, the very dice obey him,

and in our sports my better cunning
faints under his chance.

If we draw lots, he speeds.

His cocks do win the battle still of mine
when it's all to nought,

and his quails ever beat mine, inhooped,
at odds.

I will to Egypt.

And though I make this marriage for my peace,
in the East my pleasure lies.

CLEOPATRA: Give me some music!

Music, moody food of us that trade in love!

(♪ UPBEAT EGYPTIAN)

Let it alone.
(MUSIC STOPS)

Let's to billiards. Come, Charmian.

My arm is sore, play at once with Iras.

– Come, you'll play with me?
– As well as I can.

And when good will is showed, though it come too short,
the actor may plead pardon.

I'll none now.

Give me mine angle, we'll to the river.

There, my music playing far off,
I will betray tawny-finned fishes.

My bended hook shall pierce their slimy jaws,
and, as I draw them up,

I'll think them every one an Antony,
and say 'Ah, ha! You're caught!'

'Twas merry when you wagered on your angling.

When your diver did hang a salt-fish from his hook,
which he with fervency drew up.

That time? O times! I laughed him out of patience,
and that night I laughed him into patience.

And next morn, I drunk him to his bed

and put my tires and mantles on him,
whilst I wore his sword Philippan.

Oh, from Italy!

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,
that long time have been barren.

Madam, madam...

Antony's dead!
If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress.

But well and free, if thou so yield him,
there's gold,

and here my bluest veins to kiss,
a hand that kings have lipped, and trembled, kissing.

– First, madam, he is well.
– 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.

– Good madam, hear me.
– Well, go to, I will.

But there's no goodness in thy face.

If Antony be free and healthful,
so tart a favour to trumpet such good tidings!

If not well, thou shouldst come like a Fury
crowned with snakes, not like a formal man.

– Will't please you hear me?
– I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st.

Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well,
or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,

I'll set thee in a shower of gold
and hail rich pearls upon thee.

– Madam, he is well.
– Well said.

– And friends with Caesar.
– Thou'rt an honest man.

– Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.
– Make thee a fortune from me!

– But yet, madam...
– I do not like 'But yet'.

It does allay the good precedence.
Fie upon 'But yet'!

'But yet' is as a gaoler
to bring forth some monstrous malefactor.

Prithee, friend, pour out the pack of matter
to mine ear, the good and bad together.

He's friends with Caesar. In state of health,
thou say'st, and, thou say'st, free.

Free, madam? No, I made no such report.
He's bound unto Octavia.

– For what good turn?
– For the best turn in the bed.

I am pale, Charmian.

Madam, he's married to Octavia.

The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

– Good madam, patience!
– What say you?

Hence horrible villain, or I'll spurn thine eyes
like balls before me! I'll unhair thy head!

Thou shalt be whipped with wire
and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle!

Gracious madam,
I that do bring the news made not the match.

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
and make thy fortunes proud.

The blow thou hadst
shall make thy peace for moving me to rage

and I will boot thee
with what gift beside thy modesty can beg.

He's married, madam.

– Rogue, thou hast lived too long.
– What means you, madam? I have made no fault.

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself.
The man is innocent.

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.

Call the slave again.
Though I am mad, I will not bite him.

– Call.
– He is afeard to come.

I will not hurt him.

These hands do lack nobility
that they strike a meaner than myself,

since I myself have given myself the cause.

Come hither, sir.

Though it be honest,
it is never good to bring bad news.

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

Give to a gracious message an host of tongues,
but let ill tidings tell themselves when they be felt.

I have done my duty.

Is he married?

I cannot hate thee worser than I do
if thou again say 'Yes'.

– He's married, madam.
– The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still?

– Should I lie, madam?
– Oh, I would thou didst,

so half my Egypt were submerged
and made a cistern for scaled snakes.

Go, get thee hence! Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face,
to me thou wouldst appear most ugly.

– He is married?
– I crave your highness' pardon.

– He is married?
– Take no offence that I would not offend you.

To punish me for what you make me do
seems most unequal.

He's married to Octavia.

O, that his fault should make a knave of thee,
that act not what thou'rt sure of.

Get thee hence! The merchandise which thou
hast brought from Rome is all too dear for me.

Lie they upon thy hand, and be undone by 'em!

– Good your highness, patience.
– Lead me from hence.

I faint!

(SOBBING)

Charmian!

'Tis no matter.

Go to the fellow, good Iras, bid him report
the feature of Octavia, her years, her inclination.

Let him not leave out the colour of her hair.

Bring me word quickly.

Let him for ever go!
Let him not. O Charmian.

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
the other ways are Mars.

Bid you, Iras, bring me word how tall she is.

Pity me, Charmian, but do not speak to me.

(♪ MILITARY SNAREDRUM)

Your hostages I have, so have you mine,
and we shall talk before we fight.

Most meet that first we come to words,

and therefore have we our written purposes
before us sent.

Which if thou hast considered,
let us know if 'twill tie up thy discontented sword

and carry back to Sicily much tall youth
that else must perish here.

To you all three, the senators alone
of this great world, chief factors for the gods.

I do not know wherefore my father
should revengers want, having a son and friends.

And this is it hath made me rig my navy,
at whose burden the angered ocean foams,

with which I meant to scourge the ingratitude
that despiteful Rome cast on my noble father.

Take your time.

Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails,
we'll speak with thee at sea.

At land thou know'st
how much we do o'er-count thee.

At land indeed
thou dost o'ercount me of my father's house.

But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
remain in it as thou mayst.

Be pleased to tell us, for this is from the present,
how you take the offers we have sent you.

There's the point.

Which do not be entreated to,
but weigh what it is worth embraced.

And what may follow to try a larger fortune.

You have made me offer of Sicily, Sardinia
and I must rid all the sea of pirates.

Then to send measures of wheat to Rome.

This 'greed upon, to part with unhacked edges,
and bear back our shields undinted.

That's our offer.

Know, then, I came before you here
a man prepared to take this offer.

But Mark Antony puts me to some impatience.

Though I lose the praise of it by telling, you must know
when Caesar and your brother were at blows

your mother came to Sicily
and did find her welcome friendly.

I have heard it, Pompey, and am well studied
for a liberal thanks which I do owe you.

Let me have your hand.
I did not think, sir, to have met you here.

The beds in the East are soft.

And thanks to you that called me timelier
than my purpose hither, for I have gained by it.

Since I saw you last, there is a change upon you.

Well, I know not what counts
harsh fortune casts upon my face

but in my bosom shall she never come
to make my heart her vassal.

– Well met here.
– I hope so, Lepidus.

Thus we are agreed. I crave our composition
may be written and sealed between us.

That's the next to do.

We'll feast each other ere we part,
and let's draw lots who shall begin.

– That will I, Pompey.
– No, Antony, take the lot.

But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
shall have the fame.

I have heard that Julius Caesar
grew fat with feasting there.

– You've heard much.
– I have fair meanings, sir.

– And fair words to them.
– Then so much have I heard.

– And I have heard Apollodorus carried...
– No more of that! He did so.

– What, I pray you?
– A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.

I know thee now. How far'st thou, soldier?

Well, and well am like to do,
for I perceive four feasts are toward.

Let me shake thy hand, I never hated thee. I have
seen thee fight when I have envied thy behaviour.

Sir, I never loved you much.

But I have praised ye when you have well deserved
ten times as much as I've said you did.

Enjoy thy plainness, it nothing ill becomes thee.

Aboard my galley I invite you all.

– Show's the way, sir.
– Come.

You and I have known, sir.

– At sea, I think.
– We have, sir.

– You have done well by water.
– And you by land.

I will praise any man that will praise me,
though it cannot be denied

– what I have done by land.
– Nor what I have done by water.

Yes, something you can deny for your own safety.
You have been a great thief by sea.

– And you by land.
– There I deny my land service.

But give me your hand, Menas! If our eyes had
authority, here they might catch two thieves kissing.

(LAUGHS)

We came here to fight with you.

For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking.
Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.

– If he do, sure he cannot weep it back again.
– You've said, sir.

We looked not for Mark Antony here.
Pray you, is he married to Cleopatra?

– Caesar's sister is called Octavia.
– True, sir. She was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

– She's now the wife of Mark Antony.
– Pray ye, sir?

– 'Tis true.
– Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.

If I were bound to divine of this unity,
I would not prophesy so.

You shall find the band
that seems to tie their friendship together

will be the very strangler of their amity.

– Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.
– Who would not have his wife so?

Not he that himself is not so, which is Mark Antony.
He will to his Egyptian dish again.

Then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up
in Caesar, and, as I said before,

that which is the strength of their amity
will prove the immediate author of their variance.

Come, sir, will you aboard?
I have a health for you.

I shall take it, sir.
We have used our throats in Egypt.

Come, let's away.

Thus do they, sir. They take the flow of the Nile
by certain scales in the pyramid.

They know by the height, the lowness, or the mean,
if dearth or foison follow.

The higher Nilus swells, the more it promises.

As it ebbs, the seedsman upon the slime and ooze
scatters his grain, and shortly comes to harvest.

– You've strange serpents there?
– Ay, Lepidus.

Your serpent of Egypt is bred, now,
of your mud by the operation of your sun.

– So is your crocodile?
– They are so.

Sit, and some wine. A health to Lepidus!

I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out.

(ALL CHEER)

Not till you have slept, I fear me you'll be in till then.

(LAUGHTER)

(SLURRED) Nay, certainly, I have heard
the Ptolemies' pyramises are very goodly things.

Without contradiction I have heard that.

– Pompey, a word.
– Say in mine ear what is't?

– I do beseech thee, captain, hear me speak a word.
– Forbear me till anon. This wine for Lepidus!

What manner of thing is your crocodile?

It is shaped, sir, like itself,
and it is as broad as it hath breadth.

It is just so high as it is,
and moves with its own organs.

(STIFLED LAUGHTER)

It lives by that which nourisheth it,
and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.

– What colour is it of?
– Of it own colour too.

– 'Tis a strange serpent.
– 'Tis so, and the tears of it are wet.

Will this description satisfy him?

With the health that Pompey gives him,
else he's a very epicure. (LAUGHS)

Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that?
Away! Do as I bid you.

Where's this cup I called for?

– If for the sake of merit, wilt thou hear me?
– I think thou'rt mad. The matter?

I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.

Thou hast served me with much faith.
What's else to say?

Be jolly, lords.

These quick-sands, Lepidus,
keep off them, for you sink.

(GULLS CRYING)

– Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
– What say'st thou?

Wilt thou be lord of the whole world?
That's twice.

– How should that be?
– But entertain it, and, though thou think me poor,

I am the man will give thee all the world.

– Hast thou drunk well?
– No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.

Thou art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove.

Whate'er the ocean pales or sky inclips,
is thine, if thou wilt ha't.

Show me which way.

These three world-sharers, these competitors,
are in thy vessel

– Hm?
– Let me cut the cable,

and, when we are put off,
fall to their throats. All there is thine.

(CRIES OUT) Ah, this thou shouldst have done
and not have spoke on't!

In me 'tis villany,
in thee't had been good service.

Thou must know, 'tis not my profit
that does lead mine honour. Mine honour, it.

Repent that e'er thy tongue
hath so betrayed thine act.

Being done unknown, I should have found it
afterwards well done, but must condemn it now.

Desist, and drink.

For this, I'll never follow thy palled fortunes more.

Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offered,
shall never find it more.

This health for Lepidus!

(CHUCKLING)

ALL: Oooohhh!

(CHEER)

Bear him ashore.
I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.

– Here's to thee, Menas.
– Enobarbus, welcome.

Fill till the cup be hid.

– There's a strong fellow, Menas.
– Why?

He bears the third part of the world, man.
See'st not?

The third part, then, is drunk.
Would it were all, that it might go on wheels.

Drink thou, increase the reels.

(DRUM ROLL)

– Come!
– This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho!
Here's to Caesar!

(DRUM ROLL)

I could well forbear it. It is monstrous labour
when I wash my brain and it grows fouler.

– Be a child of the time.
– Possess it, I'll make answer.

But I had rather fast from all, four days,
than drink so much in one.

Ha, my brave emperor!
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals

– and celebrate our drink?
– Let's have it, good soldier.

Let's have it!

(♪ GUITAR PLAYS SENTIMENTAL MELODY)

♪ You children follow the gifts of the muse

♪ The strident lyre, that well loved tune

♪ But as for me, my skin once so smooth

♪ Old age has withered the rush of youth

♪ My heart is heavy, my knees are weak

♪ That used to dance, now ache and creak

– K-k-k...
– (LAUGHTER)

♪ There is no power can hold back old age

♪ No power halts the turning of a page ♪

Come, let's all take hands

till that the conquering wine
hath steeped our sense in soft and delicate Lethe.

All take hands.
Make battery to our ears with the loud music.

– (♪ LIVELY DRUMBEATS, MUSIC)
– ALL: Hey! Hey! Hey!

(MUSIC STOPS)

What would you more?
Pompey, good night.

Good brother, let me request you off.
Our graver business frowns at this levity.

Gentle lords, let's part.
You see we have burnt our cheeks.

Strong Enobarb is weaker than the wine,
and mine own tongue splits what it speaks.

The wild disguise hath almost anticked us all.
What needs more words? Good night.

Good Antony, your hand.

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

– I'll try you on the shore.
– And shall, sir. Give us your hand.

O, Antony, you have my father's house.
But what? We are friends.

Come down into the boat.

(JET ENGINES ROAR,
TWO-WAY RADIO CHATTERS)

What, are the brothers parted?

They have dispatched with Pompey, he is gone.
The other three are sealing.

Octavia weeps to part from Rome, Caesar is sad,

and Lepidus since Pompey's feast,
as Menas says, is troubled with the green sickness.

– 'Tis a noble Lepidus.
– A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!

– Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony.
– Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men.

– What's Antony? The god of Jupiter.
– Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'. Go no further.

– Indeed, he plied them both with most excellent praises.
– But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony.

Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets,
cannot think, speak, cast, write, sing, number...

Oh! O-oh! ..his love for Antony.

But as for Caesar, kneel down,
kneel down, and wonder.

– Both he loves.
– They are his shards and he their beetle.

Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.

No further, sir.

You take from me a great part of myself.
Use me well in't.

Sister, prove such a wife as my thoughts make thee,
and as my farthest bond shall pass on thy approof.

Most noble Antony, let not the piece of virtue
which is set betwixt us,

as the cement of our love to keep it builded,
be the ram to batter the fortress of it.

For better might we have loved without this mean,
if on both parts this be not cherished.

– Make me not offended in your distrust.
– I have said.

You shall not find, though you be therein curious,
the least cause for what you seem to fear.

So, the gods keep you, and make the hearts
of Romans serve your ends. We will here part.

Farewell. My dearest sister!

Fare thee well.

The elements be kind to thee, and make thy spirits
all of comfort! Fare thee well.

(VOICE BREAKING) My noble brother.

– ANTONY: Oh!
– (AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

The April's in her eyes. It is love's spring
and these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.

– What, Octavia?
– I'll tell you in your ear.

ANTONY: Her tongue will not obey her heart,
nor can her heart inform her tongue

The swan's-down feather, that stands upon the swell
at full of tide, and neither way inclines.

– Will Caesar weep?
– He has a cloud in's face.

No, sweet Octavia, You shall hear from me still.
The time shall not outgo my thinking on you.

Come, sir, come,
I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love.

Look, here I have you.
Thus I let you go, and give you to the gods.

Adieu. Be happy.

Let all the number of the stars
give light to thy fair way.

– Farewell.
– Farewell.

Farewell.

– Where is the fellow?
– Half afeard to come.

Go to, go to.

Most gracious majesty!

– Didst thou behold Octavia?
– Ay, dread queen.

– Where?
– Madam, in Rome.

I looked her in the face, and saw her led
between her brother and Mark Antony.

– Is she as tall as me?
– Madam, she is not.

Didst hear her speak?
Is she shrill-tongued or low?

– I heard her speak. She is low-voiced.
– That's not so good. He cannot like her long.

– Like her! O Isis! 'Tis impossible.
– I think so, Charmian.

Dull of tongue and dwarfish.

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

What majesty is in her gait?
Remember, if e'er thou lookedst on majesty.

She creeps.
Her motion and her station are as one.

She shows a body rather than a life,
a statue than a breather.

– Is this certain?
– Or I have no observance.

He is very knowing, I do perceive't.
There's nothing in her yet.

– The fellow has good judgment.
– Excellent.

Guess at her years, I prithee.

– Madam, she was a widow.
– Widow? Charmian, hark.

And I do believe she's 30.
(CHUCKLES)

– Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round?
– Round, madam, even to faultiness.

For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.
Her hair, what colour?

Brown, and her forehead
as low as she would wish it.

There's gold for thee.

Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
I would employ thee back again.

I find thee most fit for business.
Go, get thee ready. Our letters are prepared.

– A proper man.
– Indeed, he is so.

I repent me much that so I harried him.

– Why methinks, by him, this creature's no such thing.
– Nothing, madam.

The man hath seen some majesty,
and should know.

I have one thing more to ask him yet,
dear Charmian.

But 'tis no matter, thou shalt bring him to me
where I will write.

All may be well enough.

(JET ENGINE ROARS)

– How now, friend Enobarbus?
– Eros, there's strange news come.

Caesar and Lepidus have made wars
upon Pompey, who breathes no more.

Caesar, having made use of Lepidus presently
accuses him of treason. Now Lepidus is seized.

– So the poor third of the world is up.
– Till death enlarge his confine.

O world, thou hast a pair of chops, no more,
throw between them all the food thou hast.

They'll grind the one the other.

– Our navy's rigged.
– Against Italy and Caesar?

– Where is Antony?
– Seek him within.

Nay, nay, Octavia, that were excusable,
that, and thousands more of similar import,

but your brother
hath waged new wars against Pompey.

Made his will, and read it to public ear.
Spoke scantly of me.

When perforce he could not but pay me
terms of honour, cold and sickly he vented them.

Most narrow measure lent me. When the best hint
was given him, he not took it, or did it from his teeth.

O, my good lord, believe not all,
or if you must believe, stomach not all.

A more unhappy lady, if this division chance,
ne'er stood between, praying for both parts.

The good gods will mock me presently,
when I shall pray 'O, bless my lord and husband',

undo that prayer by crying out as loud
'O, bless my brother'.

Husband win, win brother, prays and destroys
the prayer. No midway 'twixt these extremes at all.

Gentle Octavia, let your best love draw
to that point which seeks best to preserve it.

If I lose mine honour, I lose myself.
Better I were not yours than yours so branchless.

But, as you requested,
yourself shall go between us.

The meantime, lady, I'll raise the preparation
of a war shall stain your brother.

Make your soonest haste,
so your desires are yours.

Thanks to my lord.

The Jove of power make me, most weak,
most weak, your reconciler.

Wars 'twixt you twain would be as if the world should
cleave, and that slain men should solder up the rift.

When it appears to you where this begins,
turn your displeasure that way.

For our faults can never be so equal that your love
can equally move with them. Hm?

Provide your going, choose your own company,
and command what cost your heart has mind to.

(♪ EGYPTIAN THEME)

The people have now received
Antony's accusations.

– Who does he accuse?
– Caesar.

And that having in Sicily Pompey spoiled,
you had not given him his part of the isle.

He frets that Lepidus has been deposed,
and, being, that you detain all his revenue.

– Sir, this should be answered.
– Tell him that Lepidus was grown too cruel.

That he his high authority abused
and did deserve his change.

For what I have conquered, I grant him part,

but then in his Armenia and other
of his conquered kingdoms, I demand the like.

– He'll never yield to that.
– Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

Hail, Caesar and my lord.
Hail, most dear Caesar.

That ever I should call thee castaway!

You have not called me so, nor have you cause.

Why have you stolen upon us thus?
You come not like Caesar's sister.

The wife of Antony
should have an army for an usher,

and the neighs of horse to tell of her approach
long ere she did appear.

Nay, the dust should have ascended to the roof
of heaven, raised by your populous troops,

but you are come a market maid to Rome.

Good my lord, to come thus was I not constrained,
but did it on my free will.

My lord, Mark Antony,
hearing that you prepared for war,

acquainted my grieved ear withal,
whereon I begged his pardon for return.

Which soon he granted,
being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him.

Do not say so, my lord.

We have eyes upon him,
and his affairs come to us on the wind.

– Where is he now?
– My lord, in Athens.

No, my most wronged sister.

Cleopatra hath nodded him to her.
He hath given his empire up to a whore.

In Alexandria.
Here's the manner of it.

In the market-place, on a tribunal silvered, Cleopatra
and himself on chairs of gold were publicly enthroned.

Unto her he gave the establishment of Egypt, made her
of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, absolute queen.

– This in the public eye?
– In the common show-place where they exercise.

– Ay me, most wretched.
– Cheer your heart.

Be you not troubled with the time, which drives
o'er your content these strong necessities,

but let determined things to destiny
hold unbewailed their way.

Each heart in Rome does love and pity you.

Only the adulterous Antony,
most large in his abominations, turns you off,

and gives his potent regiment
up to a trull that noises it against us.

– Is it so, sir?
– Most certain.

Welcome to Rome, nothing more dear to me.

You are abused beyond the mark of thought,

and the high gods, to do you justice,
make his ministers of us and those that love you.

Sister, welcome. Pray you, be ever known
to patience, my dearest sister.

(♪ EGYPTIAN THEME)

(APPLAUSE)

– I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
– But why, why, why?

Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars
and sayest it is not fit.

Well, is it, is it?

Is't not denounced against us?
Why should we not be there in person?

Your presence needs must puzzle Antony.

Take from his heart, take from his brain,
from his time what should not then be spared.

He is already traduced for levity,
and 'tis said in Rome...

Sink Rome, and let their tongues rot
that speak against us.

A charge we bear i'th war, and, as the president
of my kingdom, will appear there for a man.

– Speak not against it. I will not stay behind.
– Nay, I've done.

Here comes the noble Emperor.

(CHUCKLES)

(ANTONY GROANS)

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

Is it not strange, Canidius,
that from Tarentum and Brundusium,

Caesar could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,
and take in Toryne?

– You have heard on't, sweet?
– Celerity is never more admired than by the negligent.

A good rebuke, which might have well becomed
the best of men, to taunt at slackness.

– Canidius, we will fight with him by sea.
– By sea, what else?

Why will my lord do so?

– For that he dares us to it.
– So hath my lord dared him to single fight.

Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,
where Caesar fought with Pompey,

but these offers, which serve not for his vantage,
he shakes off, and so should you.

Your ships are not well manned.

Your mariners are muleteers, reapers,
people ingrossed by swift impress.

In Caesar's fleet are those that often have 'gainst
Pompey fought. Their ships are light, yours heavy.

No disgrace shall fall you for refusing him at sea,
being prepared for land.

By sea, by sea.

Most worthy sir, you therein throw away
the absolute soldiership you have by land,

distract your army, which doth most consist
of war-marked footmen,

leave unexecuted your own renowned knowledge,
quite forgo the way which promises assurance,

and give up yourself merely to chance and hazard,
from firm security.

– I'll fight at sea.
– I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.

Our overplus of shipping will we burn,
and, with the rest full-manned,

from the head of Actium beat the approaching Caesar,
but if we fail, we then can do it at land.

Thy business?

The news is true, my lord, he is descried.
Caesar has taken Toryne.

Can he be there in person? 'Tis impossible.
Strange that his power should be...

Canidius, our nineteen legions shalt thouh hold by land,
and our twelve thousand horse.

We'll to our ship. Away, my Thetis!

– How now, worthy soldier?
– O noble emperor, do not fight by sea.

Trust not to rotten planks.
Do you misdoubt this sword and these my wounds?

Let the Egyptians and the Phoenicians go a-ducking.

We have used to conquer standing on the earth,
and fighting foot to foot.

Well, well. Away!

– By Hercules, I think I am in the right.
– Scarus, thou art.

But his whole action grows not in the power on't.
So our leader's led, and we are women's men.

This speed of Caesar's carries beyond belief.

While he was yet in Rome, his power went out
in such distraction as beguiled all spies.

The Emperor calls Canidius.

With news the time's in labour,
and throws forth each minute some.

– Agrippa!
– My lord?

Strike not by land. Keep whole,
provoke not battle, till we have done at sea.

Our fortune lies upon this jump.

Set we our squadrons on yond side of the hill
in eye of Caesar's battle,

from which place we may the number
of the ships behold and so proceed accordingly.

(WAVES CRASH, EXPLOSIONS)

Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer.

Cleopatra, with all her sixty, flies and turns
the rudder. To see it mine eyes are blasted.

Gods and goddesses!
All the whole synod of them!

What's thy passion?

The greater cantle of the world
is lost with very ignorance.

– We've kissed away kingdoms and provinces.
– How appears the fight?

On our side,
like the tokened pestilence where death is sure,

Cleopatra, nag of Egypt, whom leprosy o'ertake,
in the midst of the fight,

when vantage like a pair of twins appeared
both as the same, or, rather, ours the stronger,

the breeze upon her, like a cow in June,
hoists sails and flies.

That I beheld. Mine eyes did sicken at the sight
and could not endure a further view.

She once being away, the noble ruin of her magic,
Antony, claps on his sea-wing

and, like a doting mallard,
leaving the fight in height, flies after her.

I never saw an action of such shame.

Experience, manhood, honour
ne'er before did violate so itself.

Alack, alack!

Our fortune on the sea is out of breath
and sinks most lamentably.

Had our general been what he knew, himself,
it had gone well.

Oh, he has given example for our flight
most grossly by his own.

Ay, are you thereabouts?
Why then, good night indeed.

To Caesar will I render my legions and my horse.
Six kings already show me the way of yielding.

I'll yet follow the wounded chance of Antony,
though my reason sits in the wind against me.

Hark!

The land bids me tread no more upon't,
it is ashamed to bear me.

Friends, come hither.

I am so lated in the world
that I've lost my way for ever.

I have a ship laden with gold.
Take that, divide it.

– Fly, and make your peace with Caesar.
– Fly? Not we.

I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards
to run and show their shoulders.

Friends, be gone. I have myself resolved
upon a course which has no need of you. Be gone.

My treasure's in the harbour. Take it.

Oh, I followed that I blush to look upon.

My very hairs do mutiny, the white reprove the brown
for rashness, and they them for fear and doting.

Friends, be gone. You shall have letters from me
to some friends that will sweep your way for you.

Pray you, look not sad nor make replies of loathness,
take the hint which my despair proclaims.

Let that be left which leaves itself.

To the sea-side straightway.
I'll possess you of that ship and treasure.

Leave me, I pray, a little. Pray you, now.

Nay, do so, for indeed I've... I've lost command.
Therefore, I pray you.

I'll see you by and by.

Nay, gentle madam, to him. Comfort him.

– Do, most dear queen.
– Do? Why, what else?

Let me sit down.

O, Juno!

No, no, no, no, no.

– See you here, sir?
– O fie, fie, fie!

– Madam.
– Madam, O good Empress!

– Sir, sir!
– Yes, my lord, yes.

(LAUGHING)

This Caesar at Philippi kept his sword e'en like
a dancer, while I struck the lean and wrinkled Cassius,

and it was I the mad Brutus ended.

He alone dealt on lieutenantry,
and no practise had in the brave squares of war.

Yet now... No matter.

– Stand by.
– The Queen, my lord. The Queen!

Go to him, madam, speak to him.
He is unqualitied with very shame.

Well then, sustain me.

Most noble sir, arise. The Queen approaches.

Her head's declined, and death will seize her
but your comfort makes the rescue.

I have offended reputation,
a most unnoble swerving.

Sir, the Queen.

O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt?

See how I convey my shame out of thine eyes

by looking back what I left behind
destroyed in dishonour.

O, my lord, forgive my fearful sails!
I little thought you would have followed.

Egypt, thou knew'st too well my heart was to thy rudder
tied by the strings, and thou shouldst tow me after.

O'er my spirit thy full supremacy thou knewst

and that thy beck
might from the bidding of the gods command me.

O, my pardon!

Now I must to the young man send humble treaties,
dodge and palter in the shifts of lowness,

who with half the bulk of the world
played as I pleased, making and marring fortunes.

You did know how much...
(POUNDING TABLE)

..you were my conqueror.

And that my sword, made weak by my affection,
would obey it on all cause.

Pardon, pardon!

Fall not a tear, I say.
One of them rates all that's won and lost.

Please give me a kiss.

(CHUCKLING) Even this repays me.

We sent our schoolmaster. Is he come back?

Love, I am full of lead.

Some wine within there, and some viands!

Fortune knows we scorn her most
when most she offers blows.

Let him appear that's come from Antony.
Know you him?

Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster.

An argument that he is plucked,
when hither he sends so poor a pinion of his wing

which had superfluous kings for messengers
not many moons gone by.

Approach, and speak.

Such as I am, I come from Antony.

I was of late as petty to his ends as is the morn-dew
on the myrtle leaf to his grand sea.

Be it so. Declare thine office.

Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee,
and requires to live in Egypt.

Which not granted, he lessens his requests
and to thee sues,

to let him breathe between the heavens and earth,
a private man in Athens.

This for him.

Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,
submits her to thy might,

and of thee craves the circle of the Ptolemies
for her heirs, now hazarded to thy grace.

For Antony, I have no ears to his request.

The Queen of audience nor desire shall fail,

so she from Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend
or take his life there.

This if she perform, she shall not sue unheard.
So to them both.

– Fortune pursue thee.
– Bring him through the bands.

To try thy eloquence now 'tis time. Dispatch.

From Antony win Cleopatra.
Promise, and in our name, what she requires.

Add more, from thine invention, offers.
Try thy cunning, Thidias.

Make thine own edict for thy pains,
which we will answer as a law.

– Caesar, I go.
– Observe how Antony becomes his flaw.

And what thou think'st his very action
speaks in every power that moves.

Caesar, I shall.

– What shall we do, Enobarbus?
– Think, and die.

Is Antony or we in fault for this?

Antony only,
that would make his will lord of his reason.

What though you fled from that great face of war.
Why should he follow?

The itch of his affection should not then
have nicked his captainship at such a point

when half to half the world opposed,
he being the only question.

'Twas a shame no less than was his loss,
to follow your flying flags, and leave his navy gazing.

Prithee, peace.

– Is that his answer?
– Ay, my lord.

The Queen shall then have courtesy,
so she will yield us up.

– He says so.
– Let her know it.

To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head, and
he will fill thy wishes to the brim with principalities.

That head, my lord?

To him again.

Tell him he wears the rose of youth upon him,
from which the world should note something particular.

His coin, ships, legions, may be a coward's

whose ministers would prevail under the service
of a child as soon as in the command of Caesar.

I dare him therefore to lay his gay comparisons apart

and answer me declined,
sword against sword, ourselves alone.

I'll write it. Follow me.

Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar
will unstate his happiness

and be staged to the show, against a sworder?

I see men's judgments are a parcel of their fortunes

and things outward do draw the inward quality
after them to suffer all alike.

That he should dream, knowing all measures,
the full Caesar will answer his emptiness!

Caesar, thou hast subdued his judgment too.

– A messenger from Caesar.
– What, no more ceremony?

See, my women, against the blown rose
may they stop their nose that kneeled unto the buds.

Admit him.

Mine honesty and I begin to square.

The loyalty well held to fools
does make our faith mere folly,

yet he that can endure
to follow with allegiance a fallen lord

does conquer him that did his master conquer
and earns a place in the story.

– Caesar's will?
– Hear it apart.

– None but friends. Say boldly.
– So haply are they friends to Antony.

He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has,
or needs not us.

If Caesar please,
Antony will leap to be his friend.

For us, you know, whose he is,
we are, and that is Caesar's

So.
Thus then, thou most renowned.

Caesar entreats, not to consider in what case
thou stand'st, further than he is Caesar.

Go on. Right royal.

He knows that you embrace not Antony
as you did love, but as you feared him.

Oh.

The scars upon your honour, therefore, he does pity
as constrained blemishes, not as deserved.

He is a god and knows what is most right.

Mine honour was not yielded
but conquered merely.

To be sure of that, I will ask Antony.

Sir, sir, thou art so leaky, that we must leave thee
to thy sinking, for thy dearest quit thee.

Shall I say to Caesar what you require of him?
For he partly begs to be desired to give.

It much would please him, that of his fortunes
you should make a staff to lean upon.

But it would warm his spirits, to hear from me

you had left Antony and put yourself
under his shroud, the universal landlord.

– What's your name?
– My name is Thidias.

Most kind messenger,
say to great Caesar this in deputation.

I kiss his conquering hand.

Tell him I am prompt to lay my crown at's feet,

and there to kneel till from his all-obeying breath
I hear the doom of Egypt.

'Tis your noblest course.

Wisdom and fortune combating together, if that the
former dare but what it can, no chance may shake it.

Give me grace to lay my duty on your hand.

Your Caesar's father oft,
when he hath mused of taking kingdoms in,

bestowed his lips on that most unworthy place
as it rained kisses.

Favours? By Jove that thunders.

What art thou, fellow?

One that but performs the bidding of the fullest man,
and worthiest to have command obeyed.

– You'll be whipped.
– Approach, there.

Ah, you kite!

(CHUCKLES)
Now, gods and devils, authority melts from me.

Of late, when I cried 'Ho!', like boys unto a muss,
kings would start forth and cry 'Your will?'

Have you no ears? I am Antony yet!

Take hence this Jack, and whip him.

'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp
than with an old one dying.

Moon and stars! Whip him!

Were it twenty of the greatest tributaries
that do acknowledge Caesar,

should I find them so saucy
with the hand of she here...

Er, what's her name? ..since she was Cleopatra.

Whip him, fellows, till, like a boy, you see him cringe
his face, and whine aloud for mercy.

– Take him hence.
– Mark Antony!

Tug him away. Being whipped, bring him again.
This Jack of Caesar's shall bear us an errand to him.

(LAUGHING TO HIMSELF)

You were half blasted ere I knew you.

Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome,
forborne the getting of a lawful race

and by a gem of women,
to be abused by one that looks on feeders?

– Good my lord...
– You have been a boggler ever.

Yet when we in our viciousness grow hard,
O misery on it!

The wise gods seal our eyes,
in our own filth drop our clear judgments,

make us adore our errors,
laugh at us while we strut to our confusion.

O, is't come to this?

I found you as a morsel cold
upon dead Caesar's trencher.

Nay, you were a fragment of Gnaeus Pompey's.

Besides what hotter hours, unregistered
to vulgar fame, you have luxuriously picked out.

Though I'm sure, you can guess what
temperance should be, you know not what it is.

Wherefore is this?

To let a fellow that will take rewards
and say 'God quit you!'...

(KISSING)
..be familiar with my playfellow!

(VOICE BREAKING) Your hand.

This kingly seal and plighter of high hearts.

O that I were upon the hill of Basan,
to outroar the horned herd!

For I have savage cause.

– Is he whipped?
– Soundly, my lord.

– Cried he? And begged he pardon?
– He did ask favour.

(SCREAMS)

If that thy father live, let him repent
thou wast not made his daughter

and be thou sorry to follow Caesar in his triumph,
since thou hast been whipped for following him.

Henceforth the white hand of a lady fever thee,
shake thou to look on't.

Get thee back to Caesar, tell him thy entertainment.
Look thou say he makes me angry with him.

For he seems proud and disdainful,
harping on what I am, not what he knew I was.

He makes me angry, and at this time most easy
'tis to do't, when my good stars

that were my former guides have empty left
their orbs and shot their fires into the abysm of hell.

Go, urge it thou.
Hence with thy stripes, begone.

Have you done yet?

Alack, our terrene moon is now eclipsed
and it portends alone the fall of Antony.

I must stay his time.

To flatter Caesar would you mingle eyes
with one that ties his points?

– Not know me yet?
– Cold-hearted toward me?

Ah, dear, if I be so,
from my cold heart let heaven engender hail

and poison it in the source,
and the first stone drop in my neck.

As it determines, so dissolve my life!

The next Caesarion smite, till by degrees
the memory of my womb,

together with my brave Egyptians all,
by the discandying of this pelleted stormm

lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile
have buried them for prey.

I am satisfied.

Caesar sits down in Alexandria,
where I will oppose his fate.

Our force by land hath nobly held. Mm?

Our severed navy too have knit again
and fleet, threatening most sea-like.

Where hast thou been, my heart?
Dost thou hear, lady?

If from the field I shall return once more
to kiss these lips, I will appear in blood.

I and my sword will earn our chronicle.

– There's hope in't yet.
– That's my brave lord.

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed,
and fight maliciously.

For when mine hours were nice and lucky,
men would ransom lives of me for jests. Ha-ha.

But now, I'll set my teeth,
and send to darkness all that stop me.

(ROARING)
Come, let's have one other gaudy night.

Call to me all my sad captains.

Fill our bowls once more,
let's mock the midnight bell.

It is my birthday.

I had thought to have held it poor,

but since my lord is Antony again,
I will be Cleopatra.

– We will yet do well.
– Call all his noble captains to my lord.

Do so, we'll speak to them,
and tonight I'll force the wine peep through their scars.

Come on, my queen, there's sap in't yet.

The next time I do fight I'll make death love me,
for I will contend even with his pestilent scythe.

Now he'll outstare the lightning.

To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear,
and in that mood the dove will peck the falcon,

but I see still a diminution in my captain's brain
restores his heart.

When valour preys on reason,
it eats the sword it fights with.

I will seek some way to leave him.

He calls me boy, and chides
as he had power to beat me out of Egypt.

My messenger he hath whipped with rods,
dares me to personal combat, Caesar to Antony.

Let the old ruffian know I have many other ways to die.
Meantime laugh at his challenge.

Caesar must think, when one so great begins to rage,
he's hunted even to falling.

Give him no breath, but now make boot of his
distraction. Never anger made good guard for itself.

Let our best heads know that tomorrow
the last of many battles we mean to fight.

Within our files there are, of those that served
Mark Antony but late, enough to fetch him in.

See it done, and feast the army. We have store to do it,
and they have earned the waste.

Poor Antony!

He will not fight with me, Enobarbus?

– No.
– Why should he not?

He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,
he's twenty men to one.

Tomorrow, soldier, by sea and land I'll fight

or I'll live, or bathe my dying honour
in the blood shall make it live again.

– Woo't thou fight well?
– I'll strike, and cry 'Take all!'

Well said!

Um...

Call forth my household servants.
Let's tonight be bounteous at our meal.

(HE LAUGHS)

Come, come!

Give me thy hand. Thou hast been rightly honest.

So hast thou, thou, and thou, and thou.

And thou!

You have served me well
and kings have been your fellows.

What means this?

'Tis one of those odd tricks
which sorrow shoots out of the mind.

And thou art honest too.

Um, we...

Come. Here.

I... I wish I could be made so many men,

and all of you clapped up together in an Antony

that I might do you service so good as you have done.

– The gods forbid!
– Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night.

Scant not my cups
and make as much of me

as when mine empire was your fellow too
and suffered my command.

– What does he mean?
– To make his followers weep.

Tend me tonight.
Maybe it is the period of your duty.

Haply you shall not see me more,
or if, a mangled shadow.

Perchance tomorrow you'll serve another master.

I look on you as one that takes his leave.

Mine honest friends, I turn you not away, but, like
a master married to your good service, stay till death.

Tend me tonight two hours, I ask no more,
and the gods yield you for it.

What mean you, sir, to give them this discomfort?
Look, they weep.

And I, an ass, am onion-eyed.
For shame! Transform us not to women.

Ho-ho-ho!
Now the witch take me if I meant it thus!

Grace grow where those drops fall.

My hearty friends, you take me in too dolorous
a sense, for I spake to you for your comfort,

did desire you to burn this night with torches!

Know, my hearts, I hope well of tomorrow

and will lead you where rather I'll expect
victorious life than death and honour.

Let's to supper, come!

– (CLEOPATRA LAUGHING)
– Come! Wa-hay!

And drown consideration!

To supper! Come!

– Tomorrow is the day.
– It will determine one way.

Peace! What noise?

List, list.

– (♪ MELANCHOLIC MELODY)
– Hark.

– Music in the air.
– Under the earth.

– It signs well, does it not?
– No.

What should this mean?

'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved,
now leaves him.

ANTONY: Eros!

Mine armour, Eros!

– Sleep a little.
– No, my chuck.

Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros!

Come, good knave, if fortune be not ours today,
it is because we brave her.

– Come.
– Nay, I'll help too. What's this for?

Ah, let be, let be.
Thou art the armourer of my heart.

(CHUCKLES) False, false! This, this!

Sooth, la, I'll help.

Thus it must be.

Well, well, we shall thrive now.
Seest thou, my good fellow.

– Go, put on my defences.
– Briefly, sir.

– Is not this buckled well?
– Rarely, rarely.

He that unbuckles this, till we do please
to doff it for our repose, shall hear a storm.

Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen's a squire
more tight at this than thou. Dispatch.

O love, if thou couldst see my wars today
and knew'st the royal occupation,

thou shouldst see a workman in't.

Good morrow to thee, welcome.
Thou look'st like him that knows a warlike charge.

To business that we love we rise betime,
and go to it with delight.

A thousand, sir, early though it be, have on
their riveted trim, and at the port expect you.

– The morn is fair. Good morrow, general.
– Good morrow, general.

'Tis well blown, lads. This morning, like the spirit of
a youth that means to be of note, begins betimes.

So, so. Come... Oh, give me that.

No, this way.

– (WHISPERS)
– Well said.

Fare thee well, dame.

Whate'er becomes of me,
this is a soldier's kiss.

I'll leave thee now, like a man of steel.

You that will fight, follow me close, I'll bring you to it.

Adieu.

– Please you, retire to your chamber.
– Lead me.

That he and Caesar might determine
this great war in single fight! Then Ant...

But now. Well, on!

The gods make this a happy day to Antony.

Would thou and those thy scars
had once prevailed to make me fight at land.

Hadst thou done so, the kings that have revolted
and the soldier that has this morning left thee

– would have still followed thy heels.
– Who's gone this morning?

Who? One ever near thee.

Call for Enobarbus, he shall not hear thee,
or from Caesar's camp say 'I am none of thine'.

– What sayest thou?
– Sir, he is with Caesar.

Sir, his treasure and his chests he has not with him.

– Is he gone?
– Most certain.

Go, Eros, send his treasure after.
Do it. Detain no jot, I charge thee.

Write to him, I will subscribe,
gentle adieus and greetings.

Say that I wish he never find more cause
to change a master.

Oh, my fortunes have corrupted honest men!
Dispatch.

Enobarbus!

(♪ SOMBRE MARCH)

(HUSHED CONVERSATIONS)

Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight.
Our will is Antony be took alive.

– Make it so known.
– Caesar, I shall.

The time of universal peace is near.

Prove this a prosperous day,
the three-nooked world shall bear the olive freely.

– Antony is come into the field.
– Go charge Agrippa.

Plant those that have revolted in the front,
that Antony may seem to spend his fury upon himself.

I have done ill, of which I do accuse myself so sorely,
that I will joy no more.

Enobarbus, Antony hath after thee sent
all thy treasure, with his bounty overplus.

The messenger came on thy guard
and at thy tent is now unloading of his mules.

– I give it to you.
– Mock not, Enobarbus. I tell you true.

I am alone the villain of the earth,
and feel I am so most.

O Antony, thou mine of bounty,
how wouldst thou have paid my better service

when my turpitude thou dost so crown with gold?

(VOICE BREAKING) This blows my heart.

If swift thought break it not,
a swifter mean shall outstrike thought

but thought will do't, I feel.

I fight against thee? No.

I will go seek some ditch wherein to die.
The foulest best fits my latter part of life.

(EXPLOSIONS)

(GUNFIRE)

(HELICOPTER OVERHEAD)

(JET ENGINE ROARS)

(ROARING)

O, my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!

Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
with cloths about their heads.

Thou bleed'st apace.

I had a wound here that was like a T,
but now 'tis made an H.

– They have retired.
– We'll beat 'em into bench-holes.

I have yet room for six scratches more.

They are beaten, sir, and our advantage
serves for a fair victory.

I will reward thee once for thy spritely comfort,
and tenfold for thy good valour.

We have beat him to his camp. Eros, run before,
and let the Queen know of our gests.

Tomorrow, before the sun shall see us,
we'll spill the blood that has today escaped.

I thank you all, for doughty-handed are you,

and have fought not as you served the cause,
but as it had been each man's like mine.

You have shown all Hectors.

Ha! Enter the city, clip your wives,
your friends, tell them your feats

whilst they with joyful tears
wash the congealment from your wounds,

and kiss the honoured gashes whole.

Give me thy hand.

To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,
make her thanks bless thee.

O thou day of the world, chain mine armed neck,

leap thou, attire and all,
through proof of harness to my heart.

Lord of lords! O infinite virtue! Comest thou
smiling from the world's great snare uncaught?

(BOTH LAUGHING)

My nightingale, we have beat him to his bed.

What, girl! Though grey do something mingle
with our younger brown

yet have we a brain that nourishes our nerves
and can get goal for goal of youth.

Behold this man.

Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.

Kiss it, my warrior.

He hath fought today as if a god
in hate of mankind had destroyed in such a shape.

I'll give thee, friend, an armour all of gold.
It was a king's.

He has deserved it,
were it carbuncled like holy Phoebus' car.

Give me thy hand.

Through Alexandria make a jolly march,
bear our hacked targets like the men that owe them.

Had our great palace
the capacity to camp this host

we all would sup together and drink carouses
to the next day's fate which promises royal peril.

Trumpeters, with brazen din blast you the city's ear,
make mingle with rattling taborins

that heaven and earth may strike their sounds
together, applauding our approach.

The night is shiny, and they say we shall embattle
by the second hour in the morn.

This last day was a harsh one to us.

O bear me witness, night.

– What man is this?
– Stand close and list him.

Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, when men
revolted shall upon record bear hateful memory

poor Enobarbus did before thy face repent.

– Enobarbus?
– Peace! Hark further.

O, thou, sovereign mistress of true melancholy,

the poisonous damp of night
disponge upon me, that life,

a very rebel to my will,
may hang no longer on me.

Throw my heart
against the flint and hardness of my fault

which, being dried with grief,
will break to powder and finish all foul thought.

O Antony, nobler than my revolt is infamous,
forgive me in thine own particular.

But let the world rank me in register
a master-leaver and a fugitive.

(CRIES OUT)

O Antony!

O Antony.

– Let's speak to him.
– But he swoons.

Go we to him.

– Awake sir, awake! Speak to us.
– Hear you, sir?

– The hand of death hath raught him.
– (DISTANT DRUMS)

Hark! The drums demurely wake the sleepers.
Let us bear him to the court of guard. He is of note.

Come on then.

Their preparation is today by sea,
we please them not by land.

For both, my lord.

I would they'd fight in the fire or in the air,
I'd fight there too, but this is it.

Our foot upon these hills
adjoining to the city shall stay with us.

– (SHIP'S HORN BLASTS)
– They have put forth the harbour.

Order for sea is given.

But being charged, we will be still by land,

which, as I take't, we shall,
for his best force is forth to man his galleys.

Yet they are not joined.

Where yond pine does stand I shall discover all.
I'll bring thee word straight how 'tis like to go.

Swallows have built in Cleopatra's sails their nests.

The augurs look grimly,
and dare not speak their knowledge

Antony is valiant and dejected,

and by starts his fretted fortunes give him hope
and fear of what he has and has not.

ANTONY: All is lost!

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.

My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder they cast
their caps up and carouse together like friends long lost.

Triple-turned whore!

'Tis thou hast sold me to this novice,
and my heart makes only wars on thee.

Bid them all fly! For when I am revenged
upon my charm, I have done all.

– My lord...
– Bid them all fly! Begone!

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more.

Fortune and Antony part here,
even here do we shake hands.

All come to this!

The hearts that spanieled me at heels,
to whom I gave their wishes, do discandy

melt their sweets on blossoming Caesar,
and this pine is barked that overtopped them all.

Betrayed I am.
O this false soul of Egypt!

This grave charm whose eye becked forth my wars,
and called them home.

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,

like a right gipsy hath at fast and loose,
beguiled me to the very heart of loss.

What, Eros, Eros!

Oh, thou spell! Avaunt!

Why is my lord enraged against his love?

Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,
and blemish Caesar's triumph.

Let him take thee,
and hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians.

Follow his chariot,
like the greatest spot of all thy sex.

Most monster-like be shown
for poorest diminutives, for doits,

and let patient Octavia plough thy visage up
with her prepared nails.

'Tis well thou'rt gone if it be well to live.

But better 'twere thou fell'st into my fury,
for one death might have prevented many.

Eros, ho!
The shirt of Nessus is upon me.

Teach me, Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage,
let me lodge Lichas on the horns of the moon

and with those hands that grasped the heaviest club,
subdue my worthiest self.

The witch shall die.

To the young Roman boy she hath sold me,
and I fall under this plot.

She dies for it.

Eros, ho!

Help me, my women!
(MOANS)

He's more mad than Telamon for his shield,
the boar of Thessaly was never so embossed.

He thinks me false and charges me with selling him
to Caesar, which never shall be found.

To the monument!
There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.

The soul and body rive not more in parting
than greatness going off.

To the monument!
Charmian, go tell him I have slain myself.

Say that the last I spoke was 'Antony',
and word it, prithee, piteously.

Hence, Charmian, and bring me
how he takes my death. To the monument!

Eros, thou yet behold'st me?

– Ay, noble lord.
– (WAVES CRASHING)

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.

Ay, my lord.

That which is now a horse,
even with a thought the rack dislimns,

– and makes it indistinct, as water is in water.
– It does, my lord.

My good knave Eros,
now thy captain is even such a body.

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 it
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.
It is left us ourselves to end ourselves.

O thy vile lady!

She has robbed me of my sword.

No, Antony, my mistress loved thee
and her fortunes mingled with thine entirely.

Hence, saucy madam, peace!
She hath betrayed me and shall die the death.

Death of one person can be paid but once,
and that she has discharged.

What thou wouldst do is done unto thy hand.

The last she spake was 'Antony! Most noble Antony!'

Then, in the midst, a tearing groan did break the name
of Antony, it was divided between her heart and lips.

She rendered life, thy name so buried in her.

– Dead, then?
– Dead.

Unarm, Eros. The long day's task is done,
and we must sleep.

Off, pluck off. The seven-fold shield of Ajax
cannot keep the battery from my heart.

Cleave, my sides! Heart, once be stronger
than thy continent. Crack thy frail case!

Apace, Eros, apace!
No more a soldier.

Bruised pieces go.

You have been nobly borne.

From me awhile.

I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra,
and weep for my pardon.

So it must be, for now all length is torture,
since the torch is out.

Lie down and stray no farther.

Hm?

Now all labour mars what it does,
yea, very force entangles itself with strength.

Seal then, and all is done.

Eros!
I come, my queen.

Eros!
Stay for me.

Where souls do couch on flowers
we'll hand in hand

and with our sprightly port
make the ghosts gaze.

Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,
and all the haunt be ours.

– Come, Eros. Eros.
– What would, my lord?

Since Cleopatra died, I have lived in such dishonour
that the gods detest my baseness.

I, that with my sword quartered the world,
and o'er green Neptune's back with ships made cities

condemn myself to lack the courage of a woman.

Less noble mind than she which, by her death,
our Caesar tells 'I am conqueror of myself'.

Thou art sworn, Eros, that when the exigent
is come, which now is come indeed,

when I should see behind me the inevitable
prosecution of disgrace and horror,

that on my command thou then wouldst kill me.

Do it. The time is come.
Thou strikest not me, 'tis Caesar thou defeat'st.

– Put colour in thy cheek.
– The gods withhold me.

Shall I do that which all the Roman darts,
though enemy, lost aim and could not?

Eros, wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome
and see thy master thus bending down his pleached arms

his face condemned to penetrative shame,

with the wheeled seat of fortunate Caesar,
drawn before him, branding his baseness that ensued?

– I would not see it.
– Come, then. For with a wound I must be cured.

Draw that thy honest sword,
which thou hast worn most useful for thy country.

O sir, pardon me.

Eros, when I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then
to do this when I bade thee?

Do it at once, or thy precedent services are
all but accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.

Turn from me then that noble countenance
wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Lo thee.

– My sword is drawn.
– Then let it do at once the thing why thou hast drawn it.

My dear master, my captain and my emperor,
let me say, before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.

– 'Tis said, man, and farewell.
– Farewell, great chief.

– Shall I strike now?
– Now, Eros.

Why, there then.

(MOANS)

Thus I do escape the sorrow of Antony's death.

Thrice-nobler than myself.

Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros,
what I should and thou couldst not.

My queen and Eros have by their brave instruction
got upon me a nobleness in record,

but I will be a bridegroom in my death
and run into it as to a lover's bed.

Come, then!
And, Eros, thy master dies thy scholar.

To do thus I learned of thee.

How? Not dead? Not dead?

– Help, the guard, ho! O, dispatch me!
– What's the noise?

I have done my work ill, friends.
O make an end of what I have begun.

– The star is fallen.
– And time is at his period. Alas and woe.

– Let him that loves me strike me dead.
– Not I.

– Nor I.
– Nor any one.

Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.

This sword but shown to Caesar with this tidings
shall enter me with him.

– Where's Antony?
– There, Iras, there.

Lives he? Wilt thou not answer, man?

Who art thou? Draw thy sword
and give me sufficing strokes for death.

Most absolute lord,
my mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.

– When did she send thee?
– Now, my lord.

– Where is she?
– Locked in her monument.

She had a prophesying fear
of what hath come to pass.

For when she saw, which never shall be found,
you did suspect she had disposed with Caesar

and that your rage would not be purged,
she sent you word she was dead.

But fearing since how it might work, hath sent me
to proclaim the truth, and I am come, I dread, too late.

Too late, good Iras. Call my guard, I prithee.

What ho! The Emperor's guard!
The guard, what ho! Come, your lord calls.

Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides.
'Tis the last service that I shall command you.

Woe, woe are we, sir.

– You may not live to wear all your true followers out.
– Most heavy day.

Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate
to grace it with your sorrows.

Bid that welcome which comes to punish us,
and we punish it, by seeming to bear it lightly.

Take me up. I have led you oft. Carry me now,
good friends, and have my thanks for all.

(WIND HOWLING)

O Charmian, I shall never go from hence.

– Be comforted, dear madam.
– No, I will not.

All strange and terrible events are welcome,
but comforts we despise.

Our size of sorrow, proportioned to our cause,
must be as great as that which makes it.

– How now? Is he dead?
– His death's upon him, but not dead.

O sun, burn the great sphere thou movest in!

Darkling stand the varying shore of the world!

(SOBBING) O Antony, Antony, Antony!

Help, Charmian! Help, Iras, help!
Help, friends below, we must draw him hither.

Peace! Not Caesar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,
but Antony's hath triumphed on itself.

So it should be that none but Antony
should conquer Antony, but woe 'tis so.

I am dying, Egypt, dying.

Only I here importune death awhile until of many
thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.

I dare not, dear.
Dear my lord, pardon. I dare not lest I be taken.

Not the imperious show of the full-fortuned Caesar
ever shall be brooched with me.

If knife, drugs, serpents,
have edge, sting or operation, I am safe.

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes and still
conclusion, shall acquire no honour demuring upon me.

But come, come Antony. Help me, my women,
we must draw thee up. Assist, good friends.

O, quick, or I am gone.

Here's sport indeed!

How heavy weighs my lord!

(AUDIENCE LAUGHS)

Our strength is all gone into heaviness,
that makes the weight.

Had I great Juno's power, the strong-winged Mercury
should fetch thee up and set thee by Jove's side.

But come, come, come, and welcome, welcome!

Die where thou hast lived, quicken with kissing.

– Had my lips that power, thus would I wear them out.
– A heavy sight.

I am dying, Egypt, dying.
Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

No, let me speak, and let me rail so high

that the false housewife Fortune
break her wheel, provoked by my offence.

One word, sweet queen.
Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety.

– They do not go together.
– Gentle, hear me.

None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.

My resolution and my hands I'll trust,
none about Caesar.

The miserable change now at my end,
lament nor sorrow at,

but please your thoughts in feeding them
with those my former fortunes wherein I lived

the greatest prince of the world, the noblest.

And do now not basely die, not cowardly
put off my helmet to my countryman.

A Roman by a Roman valiantly vanquished.

Now my spirit is going, I can no more.

Noblest of men, woo't die?

Hast thou no care of me?

Shall I abide in this dull world,
which in thy absence is no better than a sty?

O, see, my women,
the crown of the earth doth melt.

My lord?

(SOBBING)

O withered is the garland of the war, the soldier's pole
is fallen, young boys and girls are level now with men.

The odds is gone and there is nothing left remarkable
beneath the visiting moon.

– O madam, madam, madam.
– Royal Egypt, Empress.

It were for me to throw my sceptre
at the injurious gods

to tell them that this world did equal theirs
till they had stolen our jewel.

All's but naught. Patience is sottish,
and impatience does become a dog that's mad.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death
ere death dare come to us?

How do you, women?

(LAUGHING) What, what, good cheer!

Why, how now, Charmian?

My noble girls! Ah, women, women!
Look, our lamp is spent, it's out.

Good sirs, take heart. We'll bury him.

Then what's brave, what's noble,

let's do it after the high Roman fashion
and make death proud to take us.

Come, away.
This case of that huge spirit now is cold.

Ah, women, women! We have no friend
but resolution, and the briefest end.

To Antony, Agrippa, bid him yield. Being so frustrate,
tell him, he mocks the pauses that he makes.

– Caesar!
– Wherefore is that?

And what art thou that darest appear thus to us?

I am called Scarus. Mark Antony I served,
who best was worthy best to be served.

Whilst he stood up and spoke he was my master,
and I wore my life to spend upon his haters.

If thou please to take me to thee,
as I was to him I'll be to Caesar.

If thou pleasest not, I yield thee up my life.

– What is't thou say'st?
– I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.

The breaking of so great a thing
should make a greater crack.

The round world should have shook lions
into civil streets and citizens to their dens.

The death of Antony is not a single doom.
In the name lay a moiety of the world.

He is dead, Caesar.

Not by a public minister of justice,
nor by a hired knife,

but that self hand,
which writ his honour in the acts it did,

hath, with the courage that the heart did lend it,
splitted the heart.

This is his sword, I robbed his wound of it.
Behold it stained with his most noble blood.

OCTAVIA: Look you sad, brother?

The gods rebuke me,
but it is tidings to wash the eyes of kings.

– Caesar is touched.
– O Antony!

I have followed thee to this,
but we do lance diseases in our bodies.

I must perforce have shown to thee
such a declining day or look on thine.

We could not stall together in the whole world.

But yet let me lament,
with tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts

that thou, my brother,
my competitor in top of all design...

..my mate in empire,
friend and companion in the front of war,

the arm of mine own body,
and the heart where mine his thoughts did kindle...

..that our stars, unreconciliable,
should divide our equalness to this?

Hear me, good friends.

But I will tell you at some meeter season.

– Whence are you?
– A poorer servant yet.

The Queen, my mistress, confined in all she has,
her monument, of thy intents desires instruction,

that she preparedly may frame herself
to the way she's forced to.

Bid her have good heart.

She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,

how honourable and how kindly
we determine for her.

– For Caesar cannot live to be ungentle.
– So the gods preserve thee.

Come hither, Proculeius.

Go and say, we purpose her no shame.

Give her what comforts
the quality of her passion shall require

lest, in her greatness,
by some mortal stroke she do defeat us,

for her life in Rome would be eternal in our triumph.

Go, and with your speediest bring us what she says,
and how you find of her.

Caesar, I shall.

My desolation does begin to make a better life.

'Tis paltry to be Caesar. Not being Fortune,
he's but Fortune's knave, a minister of her will,

and it is great to do that thing
that ends all other deeds,

which shackles accidents and bolts up change,

which sleeps and never palates more the dung,
the beggar's nurse and Caesar's.

– What's thy name?
– My name is Proculeius.

Be of good cheer.
You're fallen into a princely hand, fear nothing.

Pray you tell him I am his fortune's vassal
and I send him the greatness he has got.

I hourly learn a doctrine of obedience,
and would gladly look him i' the face.

This I'll report, dear lady. Have comfort,
for I know your plight is pitied of him that caused it.

Guard her till Caesar come.

– Royal queen!
– O Cleopatra, thou art taken, queen!

– Quick, quick, good hands.
– Hold, worthy lady, hold!

Do not yourself such wrong,
who are in this relieved, but not betrayed.

What, of death too, that rids our dogs of languish?

Cleopatra, do not abuse my master's bounty
by the undoing of yourself.

Where art thou, Death? Come hither, come!

Come, and take a queen
worth many babes and beggars.

– O temperance, lady.
– Sir, I will eat no meat, I'll not drink, sir.

If idle talk will once be necessary,
I'll not sleep neither.

This mortal house I'll ruin,
do Caesar what he can.

Know, sir, that I will not wait pinioned
at your master's court,

nor once be chastised
by the sober eye of dull Octavia.

Shall they hoist me up and show me
to the shouting varletry of censuring Rome?

Rather a ditch in Egypt
be gentle grave unto me.

Rather on Nilus' mud lay me stark naked,
and let the water-flies blow me into abhorring.

Rather make my country's high pyramides
my gibbet and hang me up in chains.

You do extend these thoughts of horror
further than you shall find cause in Caesar.

Proculeius, what thou hast done thy master Caesar
knows, and he hath sent for thee.

For the Queen, I'll take her to my guard.

To Caesar I will speak what you shall please,
if you'll employ me to him.

Say I would die.

– Most noble empress, you have heard of me?
– I cannot tell.

Assuredly you know me.

You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams.
Is't not your trick?

I understand not, madam.

I dreamed there was an Emperor Antony.

O, such another sleep,
that I might see but such another man!

If it might please ye...

His face was as the heavens,
and therein stuck a sun and moon,

which kept their course
and lighted the little O, the earth.

Most sovereign creature...

His legs bestrid the ocean,
his reared arm crested the world.

His voice was propertied as all the tuned spheres,
and that to friends.

But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,
he was as rattling thunder.

For his bounty, there was no winter in't,
an autumn it was that grew the more by reaping.

His delights were dolphin-like, they showed
his back above the element they lived in.

In his livery walked crowns and crownets. Realms
and islands were as plates dropped from his pocket.

Cleopatra...

Think you there was or might be
such a man as this I dreamt of?

– Gentle madam, no.
– You lie up to the hearing of the gods.

But, if there be nor ever were one such,
it's past the size of dreaming.

Hear me, good madam. Your loss is as yourself, great,
and you bear it as answering to the weight.

Would I might never o'ertake pursued success,
but I do feel, by the rebound of yours,

a grief that smites my very heart at root.

I thank you.
Know you what Caesar means to do with you?

– I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.
– Nay, pray you.

Though he be honourable,
Caesar through Syria intends his journey

and within three days you and your children
will he send before. Make your best use of this.

– He'll lead me, then, in triumph?
– Madam, he will. I know it.

I shall remain your debtor.

Madam, your Emperor.

Which is the Queen of Egypt?

Arise. You shall not kneel.
I pray you rise. Rise, Egypt.

Sir, the gods will have it thus.
My master and my lord I must obey.

Take to you no hard thoughts.

The record of what injuries you did us,
though written in our flesh,

we shall remember as things done by chance.

Sole sir of the world, I cannot project mine own cause
so well to make it clear

but do confess I have been laden with like frailties
which before have often shamed our sex.

Be it known that we, the greatest,
are misthought for things that others do,

and when we fall, we answer others' merits
in our name...

(SOBBING) ..are therefore to be pitied.

Cleopatra,
know we will extenuate rather than enforce.

If you apply yourself to our intents,
which towards you are most gentle,

you shall find a benefit in this change.

But if you seek to lay on me a cruelty
by taking Antony's course,

you shall bereave yourself of my good purposes

and put your children to that destruction
which I'll guard them from if thereon you rely.

Therefore be cheered,
make not your thoughts your prisons.

No, dear queen, for we intend so to dispose you
as yourself shall give us counsel.

Feed and sleep.

(CRYING)

Our care and pity is so much upon you,
that we remain your friend.

And so, adieu.

– My master and my lord
– Not so. Adieu.

He words me, girls, he words me,
that I should not be noble to myself.

Hark, Charmian.

Finish, good lady.
The bright day is done, and we are for the dark.

Hie thee again. I have spoke already
and it is provided.

– Go put it to the haste.
– Madam, I will.

Now, Iras, what think'st thou?

Thou an Egyptian puppet
shalt be shown in Rome as well as I.

Mechanic slaves with greasy aprons,
rules and hammers shall uplift us to the view,

in their thick breaths, rank of gross diet, shall we
be enclouded and forced to drink their vapour.

– The gods forbid!
– Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras.

The quick comedians extemporally will stage us,
and present our Alexandrian revels.

Antony shall be brought drunken forth

and I shall see some squeaking Cleopatra
boy my greatness in the posture of a whore.

– O the good gods!
– Nay, tis most certain.

I'll never see it, for I am sure
my nails are stronger than mine eyes.

Why, that's the way to fool their preparation
and to conquer their most absurd intents.

Now, Charmian!
Show me, my women, like a queen.

Go fetch my best attires.
I am again for Cydnus to meet Mark Antony.

Sirrah Iras, go.

Now, noble Charmian, we'll dispatch indeed.

And when thou hast done this chore,
I'll give thee leave to play till doomsday.

– Bring our crown and all.
– Wherefore's this noise?

There is a rural woman that will not be denied
your highness' presence. She brings you figs.

Let her come in.

My resolution's placed,
and I have nothing of woman in me.

Now from head to foot I am marble-constant.
Now the fleeting moon no planet is of mine.

– This is the woman.
– Avoid, and leave her.

Hast thou the worm of Nilus there
that kills and pains not?

Truly, I have him, but I would not be the party
that should desire you to touch him.

For his biting is immortal.
Those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.

– Get thee hence, farewell.
– I wish you all joy of the worm.

Give me my robe. Put on my crown.

I have immortal longings in me.

Now no more the juice of Egypt's grape
shall moist this lip.

Yare, yare, good Iras.
Methinks I hear Antony call.

I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act.

I hear him mock the luck of Caesar,
which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath.

Husband, I come!
Now to that name my courage prove my title.

I am fire and air,
my other elements I give to baser life.

So, have you done?

Come, then, and take the last warmth of my lips.

Farewell, kind Charmian.

Iras,

Long farewell.

Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?

If thou and nature can so gently part,

the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch
which hurts and is desired.

Dost thou lie there still?

If thus thou vanishest,
thou tell'st the world it is not worth leave-taking.

Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain,
that I may say, the gods themselves do weep.

This proves me base.
If she first meet the curled Antony

he'll make demand of her,
and spend that kiss which is my heaven to have.

Come, thou mortal wretch, with thy sharp teeth
this knot intrinsicate of life at once untie.

Poor venomous fool, be angry and dispatch.

O, couldst thou speak, that I might hear thee
call great Caesar ass unpolicied.

– O eastern star.
– Peace, peace.

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
which sucks the nurse asleep?

As sweet as balm.

As soft as air, as gentle...

O Antony!

What should I stay...

In this vile world?

So, fare thee well.

Now boast thee, Death,
in thy possession lies a lass unparalleled.

Downy windows, close, and golden Phoebus,
never be beheld of eyes again so royal.

Your crown's awry. I'll mend it, and then play.

– MESSENGER: Where's the Queen?
– Speak softly. Wake her not.

– Caesar hath sent...
– Too slow a messenger.

– O come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee.
– Approach ho! All's not well.

Caesar's beguiled. Call him.

Charmian. What work is here?
Charmian! Is this well done?

It is well done, and fitting for a princess
descended of so many royal kings.

Ah, soldier!

– How goes it here?
– All dead.

Bravest at the last, she levelled at our purposes
and, being royal, took her own way.

The manner of their deaths? I do not see them bleed.

– Who was last with them?
– A simple countrywoman that brought them figs.

– This was her basket.
– Poisoned, then.

O Caesar, this Charmian lived but now,
she stood and spake.

I found her trimming up the diadem
on her dead mistress.

Tremblingly she stood,
and on the sudden dropped.

If they had swallowed poison,
'twould appear by external swelling

but she looks like sleep, as she would catch
another Antony in her strong toil of grace.

There on her breast there is a vent of blood,
and something blown.

This is an aspic's trail,
and these fig-leaves have slime upon them

such as the aspic leaves upon the caves of Nile.

Most probable that so she died.
Bear her women from the monument.

She shall be buried by her Antony.

No grave upon the earth
shall clip in it a pair so famous.

High events as these strike those that make them,

and their story is no less in pity than his glory
which brought them to be lamented.

Our army shall in solemn show attend this funeral,
and then to Rome.

Come, Agrippa,
see high order in this great solemnity.

(APPLAUSE, CHEERS)