CLEOPATRA   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.

ANTONY                     The gods best know—

CLEOPATRA   O, never was there queen

So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first

I saw the treasons planted.

ANTONY                     Cleopatra—

CLEOPATRA   Why should I think you can be mine and true—

Though you in swearing shake the thronèd gods—

Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,

To be entangled with those mouth-made vows

Which break themselves in swearing.        (1.3.19-31)

 

Heavy irony, presumably, when Cleopatra finally deigns to address Antony directly: I see by that same eye there’s some good news. Does he look solemn? apprehensive? afraid? is there even a tear in his eye? and then biting sarcasm: what says the married woman? (that is, the woman married to Antony himself, Fulvia, his wife; Cleopatra doesn’t shy away from stating the obvious). She knows what’s going on, at least generally: there must be some summons, or at least some news. Has she said you may go? You need her permission for everything, don’t you, even adultery? Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here, little, powerless, unfascinating me, so—dull—in comparison with the married woman. I have no power upon you (I know how powerful I am, even as I fear—can never admit I fear—losing you). Hers you are. She’s your wife, you’re her husband, after all. Simple.

 

So Antony tries. The gods best know—whatever they know, they’re not telling, or at least Antony isn’t, because Cleopatra’s now drawn breath. O, never was there queen so mightily betrayed! Fulvia isn’t a queen, is part of the point she’s making—but mostly, Antony even contemplating leaving her, Cleopatra, for his actual wife is far worse a betrayal than his cheating on his wife. Magnificently illogical, entirely solipsistic. Yet at the first I saw the treasons planted. Element of truth here: Antony’s already being unfaithful to his wife; why should he be expected to be faithful to his lover? I knew from the start you’d betray me one day. Cleopatra—

 

Barely a break in the flow; Antony needs to do better than that, even though he’s perhaps already switched from reasonable explanation to pleading. Cleopatra is really in her stride now, and she only gains force and momentum by the fact that she is speaking the truth: why should I think you can be mine and true—my own faithful lover—though you in swearing shake the thronèd gods—you swear it often enough, loudly enough, shaking the very heavens, like Jove himself, that you are faithful and true—when you’ve been false to Fulvia? Spitting out the fricatives, f-ing Fulvia, but—given that you (presumably) swore to be faithful to her when you married her, and—here we are—why could I ever believe you’d be faithful to me? It is riotous madness, complete and utter folly on my part—I must be mad—to have believed a single thing you’ve said, to allow myself to be entangled, ensnared with those mouth-made vows, promises made with your voice, not in your heart, mere lip-service to the idea of love and fidelity—those vows are broken the moment they’re sworn, they’re not worth the breath they’re made with.

And breathe. Briefly.