ANTONY                                 Our Italy

Shines o’er with civil swords. Sextus Pompeius

Makes his approaches to the port of Rome.

Equality of two domestic powers

Breed scrupulous faction. The hated, grown to strength,

Are newly grown to love. The condemned Pompey,

Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace

Into the hearts of such as have not thrived

Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;

And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge

By any desperate change.                (1.3.44-54)

Antony is updating Cleopatra, of course, setting out the current geopolitical situation (which is desperate); he’s also reminding (or informing) the audience, in a neat little exposition—and, perhaps most significantly, he’s reinforcing this side of his character, the politician, the general, who’s mastered the brief, can reduce it to its essentials, and knows all too well how dire the situation is. Here, he is like one of the stream of messengers who flow through this play, like tickertape or the ‘crawl’ along the bottom of the television screen: Cleopatra is the drama, but here is the news. So, first, the headline: Our Italy shines o’er with civil swords. Civil war and rebellion are breaking out everywhere; things are falling apart. Sextus Pompeius, the young pretender who’s gathering lots of support, he’s closing in on the port of Rome, which could either be the port of Ostia, or else the gates of Rome itself. Moreover, equality of two domestic powers breed scrupulous faction; this is Antony the canny, pragmatic politician, noting that because the powers within Rome are equally balanced, people are quarrelling and falling out over the tiniest details (the scruples); they’re forming factions over the most insignificant things. The hated, grown to strength, are newly grown to love: those who were unpopular, because they’re now powerful, are popular again. All that matters is power and the appearance of power. The condemned Pompey—that is, Sextus Pompeius, who had been exiled, is trading on his father’s reputation as a great leader and general, and so supporters are flocking to him in particular—because he is appealing to such as have not thrived upon the present state. He’s creeping into their hearts, gathering the disaffected, those who have not prospered, telling them that things can be better. Their numbers threaten: Pompey’s gaining more and more support every day. (It’s a sketch of the rise of populists throughout history: the strong, opportunistic man who promises the poor and oppressed that things will be better if only they throw in their lot with him and give him their support.) And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge by any desperate change. People (fickle as they are) are sick of peace, of order and tranquility, and (as if it were an illness) they’d purge it by any desperate change. They just want some action, the illusion of agency, some kind of change to their circumstances, even if it’s pointless or wrongheaded or sold to them under false pretences. (Antony could be describing the politics of the early twenty-first century, with particular reference to the US and UK…) And, glancing back to his character in Julius Caesar, he knows better than any how fickle the plebs are, how soon their affections can be alienated.