ANTONY         She is cunning past man’s thought.

ENOBARBUS  Alack, sir, no—her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

ANTONY         Would I had never seen her!

ENOBARBUS  O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not to have been blessed withal would have discredited your travel. (1.2.125-133)

This is interesting from Antony: is he continuing to think about Cleopatra as enchantress, himself as bound by spells? Yes, mostly, but cunning also allows Enobarbus the option of continuing as if Antony has picked up on dying and nothing and has joined him in the double entendres (cunning also suggesting an obscene play on women’s genitals). Enobarbus is mock serious, no, she’s not cunning at all, of course it’s not an act (of course she’s not a whore, putting on a show, moaning and sighing): her passions are made of nothing (nothing again) but the finest part of pure love. It’s all genuine! (He is being bitterly, mockingly ironic. The irony is that he—sort of—speaks true.) All those rages, the weeping, the groans; they’re not mere sighs and tears, they’re greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. She is a phenomenon, extraordinary, extreme, her sighing and weeping of such magnitude that even the almanacs, which include weather forecasts and sometimes even foretell extreme events and catastrophes couldn’t begin to describe her emotional excesses. (Cleopatra is a world unto herself, too; her emotions are entire weather systems.) Sure, this can’t be cunning in her; surely she couldn’t be faking all that! (That is, of course, exactly what Enobarbus is implying. Cleopatra is so extreme, so theatrical, so purely histrionic that she can’t be genuine.) If it were cunning, skill, artifice—even magical power (cunning also allows that)—then, well, she could make a shower of rain as well as Jove, raising floods and tempests like a god. And thunder and lightening too.

Would I had never seen her! self-pity from Antony, but also, perhaps genuine desperation: this extraordinary woman hasn’t just captured him, she’s changed him utterly. Even as he says it, surely there’s recognition that he can’t unsee her; there’s no going back. Enobarbus again speaks truth: o, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work. Piece of work, to modern ears, is usefully negative too—she’s an absolute piece of work, even a nasty piece of work—but Enobarbus means a masterpiece, a pinnacle of creation, a work of art—and wonderful, full of wonder. Cleopatra is amazing. If you hadn’t seen her and been blessed withal (and blessed here perhaps allows the sense of, if you hadn’t enjoyed her—sexual—favours) then it would have discredited your travel. To have come all this way and not seen her, travelled this far, it wouldn’t have done much for your reputation as a traveller and a man of action—and travelled also suggests travailed, if you hadn’t worked so hard to get her favour. Even, perhaps, if you hadn’t put so much effort and energy into making love with her, so that you were (both) ‘blessed’. It would have been rude not to. (So, discredited your travel can also suggest, destroyed your reputation as a ladies’ man and lover.)

Enobarbus is very often talking about sex. But he’s never just talking about sex. And for the most part he speaks truer than he knows or will admit.