MENAS           These three world-sharers, these competitors,

Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable;

And when we are put off, fall to their throats.

All then is thine.

POMPEY         Ah, this thou shouldst have done

And not have spoke on’t. In me ’tis villainy,

In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know

’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;

Mine honour, it. Repent that e’er thy tongue

Hath so betrayed thine act. Being done unknown,

I should have found it afterwards well done,

But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.        (2.7.65-75)

Do I have to spell it out? Menas might as well say. Look, these three world-sharers, these competitors, so-called partners, the three men who allegedly rule the whole world (or at least the empire), the actual bloody triumvirate—they’re in thy vessel. Your boat. Yours; they’re wholly in your power now. So, let me cut the cable, the rope that ties us to the shore, or else the anchor rope, so that we just—drift off, out to sea. And when we are put off, out on the open sea, I will fall to their throats—kill them. All then is thine. Job done, problem solved. The whole world will be yours and yours alone.

Pompey’s response is unexpectedly complex, and surprising. Ah, this thou shouldst have done and not have spoke on’t. You should have just gone ahead and done it, not told me you were going to, let alone asked me if you should. In me ’tis villainy, it would be dishonourable, a betrayal of my guests and of myself. (Antony and Cleopatra is close in date to Macbeth, in which guest-killing, the violation of the host-guest contract, is central.) But if you’d just done it, without telling me, in thee it would have been good service, an act of loyalty towards me—and I would be undamaged by it. Thou must know—listen, you have to understand this; also, I have to be heard to say this—’tis not my profit that does lead mine honour, but rather mine honour, it. I’m not in this for gain, but rather for honour, for reputation, my father’s name and my own—and if by salvaging and living up to that reputation I happen to do well, in a material sense—well, so be it. But honour comes first. I can’t do anything so dishonourable, even if it would win me untold power and wealth. So, Menas: repent that e’er thy tongue hath so betrayed thine act. It’s such a pity that you told me about this, that you put this intention into words, rather than just going ahead—and you’ll regret it. (So will I, is the implication.) Your words have proved treacherous to your action, just as your action would now make me a traitor. Because being done unknown, I should have found it afterwards well done, but must condemn it now. Pompey here reveals that he is both honourable (and squeamish) and also perhaps more politically savvy than he’s sometimes appeared. He understands that appearance is all; he could be grateful for assassinations which he knew of only after the fact, and make the most of them, but he cannot be seen to commission them, or to know of them in advance, or to approve of them. In Antony’s funeral oration over Caesar’s body in Julius Caesar, he accused Brutus of hypocrisy as much as of dishonour (and murder) and Pompey’s not going to fall into that trap. He must condemn Menas’s plan and reject his offer utterly. So desist, and drink, he says to the pirate. Thanks, but no thanks. Just get drunk, man, like everyone else.