ANTONY         Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS              Sir.

ANTONY         Fulvia is dead.

ENOBARBUS              Fulvia?

ANTONY         Dead.

ENOBARBUS  Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their 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 more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat—and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.         (1.2.134-146)

Antony finally comes out with it—having steeled himself until he is more sure of his own reaction? Not knowing what to say? Direct, then, and Enobarbus at first can’t quite react, interrupted as he is mid riff—what’s going on, what’s this? And so Antony has to say it twice, perhaps as if convincing himself too: Fulvia is dead. Fulvia? Really? Dead. No argument possible, no joke. But Enobarbus has swiftly recollected himself and he’s off again, in the vicinity of a series of mother-in-law jokes: why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. Your wife’s dead! Lucky you! The gods are smiling on you, and they’re the tailors of the earth, sprucing you up and giving you a whole new outfit. It’s a comfort to know that when old robes are worn out there are members to make new. Plenty more fish in the sea! If there were no more women but Fulvia, if she really had been the only girl in the world (and, super stud, you know better than most that’s not the case!) then you’d be in a bad way (and there’s more obscene punning going on with cut and case here)—but this grief is crowned with consolation! It’s all good! Because your old smock brings forth a new petticoat! That ragged old undergarment can be replaced with something smarter and better! Trade in the old model for a younger, sexier one! A petticoat wasn’t properly an undergarment in early modern usage, it was more like an underskirt and, among elites, would be made of silk or satin, richly ornamented with embroidery, to be partly or fully visible under an overskirt. A smock was an undergarment, made of linen, and, while it might be visible around neckline and sleeves, it wasn’t an outer garment in the same way. This is about replacement, not recycling. But they are both fairly intimate garments, especially the smock, and it’s not especially seemly for Enobarbus to be talking about them; it’s as if he’s talking about knickers. Really, though, mate, he concludes: the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. You surely can’t be upset about this? Fulvia? You’d mourn her? You’d weep for her? You’d have to be faking it; no need.

Enobarbus doesn’t quite say, this is the news you’ve wished for out loud often enough; neither does he say, well, you can shack up with Cleopatra officially now. He’s more sensitive, and more politically savvy, than he likes to let on.