ANTONY                     Fie, wrangling queen,

Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh,

To weep; how every passion fully strives

To make itself, in thee, fair and admired!

No messenger but thine; and all alone

Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note

The qualities of people. Come, my queen.

Last night you did desire it. [To Messenger] Speak not to us.

Exeunt [Antony and Cleopatra] with the train           (1.1.50-57)

Antony is utterly, utterly besotted and completely indulgent: fie, wrangling queen, you quarrelsome, contrary woman, he says; everything becomes you, every mood, every action. No matter whether you’re scolding me, picking fights over nothing just for the sake of having a good bitch and making me laugh; no matter if you’re laughing or weeping, every emotion, every passion fully strives to make itself, in thee, fair and admired! You’re perfect in every mood, and every mood reaches perfection in your expression of it, no matter what it is. You’re amazing, and in my eyes, you can do no wrong. I will hear no messenger but thine tonight; I have eyes and ears only for you. And here’s what we’re going to do, we’re going to head out into the streets incognito (actually in disguise, it says, in Plutarch) and see what’s what, just observe ordinary people, what they’re up to. An escapade, a fantasy, the two of us together. Come my queen. Last night you did desire it. (So, he’s remembered that she cooked up this scheme the night before, and he’s attentive to her every whim, makes her idlest fantasy a reality.) Speak not to us, he says to the long-suffering messenger; leave us alone, you boring little man, keep your boring little messages to yourself. And off they sweep, with the waiting women, the eunuchs, and the fans.