CHARMIAN     Good madam, keep yourself within yourself.

The man is innocent.

CLEOPATRA   Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt.

Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures

Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again.

Though I am mad I will not bite him. Call!

CHARMIAN                 He is afeard to come.

CLEOPATRA                           I will not hurt him.

[Exit Charmian]

These hands do lack nobility that they strike

A meaner than myself, since I myself

Have given myself the cause.           (2.5.75-84)

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself, says Charmian. Get a grip, woman! Or, a little more precisely, control yourself, be temperate, moderate; don’t be so excessive. The sense of explosion, flood, the wholesale breaching of boundaries and limits—that’s what Cleopatra’s been performing. And, after all, the man is innocent. Cleopatra is right when she says that this is no defence, that some innocents escape not the thunderbolt. Even—especially—the innocent can be punished for things that are not their fault. That’s the way of the world. But now the world is turned upside-down, or should be; confound everything, says Cleopatra. Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures (not unkind, but rather just things that are their own kind, that are natural, normal) turn all to serpents! All beasts should be transformed into things that are unnatural. The world’s order has collapsed; the world is not fair. But—on reflection—call the slave again. Though I am mad (angry, but also maddened, driven mad, insane) I will not bite him. Hmmm. The jury may be out on that, given her mood and current form. He is afeard to come, says Charmian, pointedly. You’ve frightened him quite enough already, he’s not going to come back, and fair enough. I will not hurt him, promises Cleopatra. And so Charmian (probably; the stage direction is editorial) goes to persuade the messenger to return, and Cleopatra continues to reflect on how she’s treated him. It doesn’t make her look good, she concedes: these hands do lack nobility that they strike a meaner than myself. He’s a servant—a slave, even—it’s lowering myself to treat him like that, it looks petty, déclassée. Especially since I myself have given myself the cause; I’m only reacting so strongly, with such violence because I’ve made myself vulnerable—by loving Antony so violently and excessively in the first place…