MESSENGER              Gracious madam,

I that do bring the news made not the match.

CLEOPATRA   Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee,

And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst

Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage,

And I will boot thee with what gift beside

Thy modesty can beg.

MESSENGER              He’s married, madam.

CLEOPATRA   Rogue, thou hast lived too long.

[She draws] a knife

MESSENGER              Nay then, I’ll run.

What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

Exit      (2.5.66-74)

Fair go, give me a break, please, pleads the messenger. All he can do is state the obvious: gracious madam (which is heavily ironic in the circumstances, as he lies on the floor, attempting to shield himself from her blows) I that do bring the news made not the match. I’m just the messenger! I had nothing to do with setting up the marriage, nothing at all, of course I didn’t! I’m just the messenger! Cleopatra’s not listening, and she’s clinging to vain hopes, desperately bargaining with the messenger and, indirectly, with fate: say ’tis not so, that Antony hasn’t married Octavia, and a province I will give thee, and make thy fortunes proud. I’ll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, raise you socially, give you power. And—sorry about the violence (perhaps)—but, if you tell me it’s not true, then the blow thou hadst, the beating I’ve given you already (the slap in the face, the nifty left hook to the jaw, the kick to the guts)—well, that’ll be enough of a punishment for Making Me Angry; it’ll make thy peace for moving me to rage. We’ll be quits, no hard feelings, no ill will. And I will boot thee, reward thee (boot in this sense is quite common in early modern usage; a modern audience may think more that Cleopatra’s quibbling on the kicking she’s been giving him) with what gift beside thy modesty can beg. Whatever you ask for, it’ll be yours.

Almost weeping with frustration and fear, presumably, the messenger can only, in terror and trepidation, redeliver his message and restate the unchangeable truth: he’s married, madam. Nothing he says can alter that, and nothing that Cleopatra says or does either. (The messenger is already inching away, scoping out his nearest emergency exit.) Rogue, thou hast lived too long! She snaps, she’s ready to pounce. And she grabs or draws a knife. The messenger isn’t sticking around to see if her threats are empty, this is way above his pay grade, there’s no danger money, and he’s out of there. Nay then, I’ll run. But he can’t help a last, entirely reasonable parting shot, as he runs, possibly for his life. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. What are you even thinking? How is this reasonable? It’s not my fault, I had nothing to do with it. I’m just the messenger!