SOOTHSAYER                        Your fortunes are alike.

IRAS                                        But how, but how?

Give me particulars.

SOOTHSAYER                        I have said.

IRAS    Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

CHARMIAN     Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?

IRAS    Not in my husband’s nose.

CHARMIAN     Our worser thoughts heavens mend!         (1.2.46-52)

So Iras too will outlive her mistress, if her fortune is alike to Charmian’s—but they’re not thinking about that, they’re mostly thinking about sex. Iras wants more details, but how, but how are our fortunes alike? give me particulars, she says. The Soothsayer retreats into resolute, gnomic silence: I have said. No more details for you, you frivolous women. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she? asks Iras, just a little bit luckier? (but mostly to set up the bawdy joke in her next line). Well, if it’s a question of a mere inch of fortune better than me, interjects Charmian, where would you choose it? Where would you like that particular inch to be found? Not in my husband’s nose, that’s for certain, responds Iras—and there’s scope here for a raucous cackle, with an edge of gin and fags, the two women clutching themselves and each other; I’d far rather that than a coy giggle. (Iras and Charmian have things in common with Othello’s Emilia; they can be closer to Cleopatra in age than might sometimes be imagined.) Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Shame on us, what are we like?