ANTONY                     Neglected, rather,

And then when poisoned hours had bound me up

From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may

I’ll play the penitent to you, but mine honesty

Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power

Work without it. Truth is that Fulvia,

To have me out of Egypt, made wars here,

For which myself, the ignorant motive, do

So far ask pardon as befits mine honour

To stoop in such a case.

LEPIDUS                     ’Tis noble spoken.     (2.2.90-99)

 

Like Cleopatra, Antony knows that unpredictability and variety are tremendous rhetorical, political, and psychological weapons. He’s now going to be disarmingly honest as well as assertive, and at the same time quite passive aggressive in the way he—sort of—asks Caesar’s pardon. Look, when I didn’t answer your letters, didn’t respond to your request for arms and aid in clear violation of my honourable oath—there was no malice in it. I didn’t actively deny your request—it was a case of neglect, a sin of omission, when poisoned hours had bound me up from mine own knowledge. The poisoned hours, in the larger context of the discussion, could simply suggest drunkenness, Antony confessing that he was so off his face that he couldn’t do or remember a thing, he was utterly incapable—but it (and he) leaves open the possibility that those hours are more generally those poisoned by Cleopatra, making her a Circe figure and Antony bewitched, rendered helpless by her power. As nearly as I may I’ll play the penitent to you; I’m prepared to apologise and ask your pardon—but I’m not going to roll over and beg, compromise my status, make poor my greatness in the act of being honest about my failings. And at the same time, I’m not going to abuse my power, use it dishonourably.

 

To tell you the truth—now he’s been so disarmingly honest, and also assertive—man to man (and he’s established, too, that he’s more experienced and worldly than Octavius Caesar)—the fact is that Fulvia, to have me out of Egypt, made wars here. It’s all down to her, a matrimonial spat that got out of control. (He doesn’t mention Cleopatra, but that is, of course, what he means by to have me out of Egypt, to detach me from my mistress, my lover, my Egyptian queen.) And for those wars, myself, the ignorant motive—I was just the excuse, it had nothing to do with me, I had no idea really what she was up to—I so far ask pardon as befits my honour to stoop in such a case. So far as I can be, not wanting utterly to abase myself before you, and because it’s not entirely my fault, I’m sorry.

 

’Tis noble spoken, says Lepidus, partly to encourage Caesar to concede, tacitly, that Antony is always going to outflank him rhetorically, so he’d better save his face and self-respect so far as he can, accept the apology, and move on to more pressing matters. But Lepidus can also be genuinely admiring of Antony’s more or less honourable and honest speaking, and also of his sheer political nous.