OCTAVIA        [weeping] My noble brother!

ANTONY         The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring,

And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.

OCTAVIA        [to Caesar] Sir, look well to my husband’s house, and—

CAESAR          What, Octavia?

OCTAVIA        I’ll tell you in your ear.

 [She whispers to Caesar]

ANTONY         Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can

Her heart inform her tongue—the swan’s-down feather,

That stands upon the swell at full of tide,

And neither way inclines.                 (3.2.42-50)

And now Octavia’s been set off, or perhaps she’s been weeping, or about to weep, throughout: my noble brother! Her sincerity and evident distress can undercut the comedy here, and make Caesar look less ridiculous in the intensity of his emotions. Now it’s Antony who’s discomforted, having to offer a kind of commentary on the action, in which he is now very much side-lined: the April’s in her eyes, that’s why she’s crying. It’s the spring of our love, its burgeoning beginning! and April is proverbially marked by rain, so her tears are the showers to bring it on; they presage the flowering of our love. Antony can be a bit embarrassed, even frustrated or awkward—a woman is crying, oh no, what to do?—in his injunction to be cheerful. Or annoyed, impatient. Octavia’s not paying attention, though, even though her concern seems to be for Antony: look well to my husband’s house. Please look after his business in Rome—and—and then does she break down? Is she embarrassed? I’ll tell you in your ear. Whatever, she needs to whisper the last bit to her brother, so that no one else (especially not Antony?) can hear—so she will be physically close to Caesar, probably far closer than she is to Antony. Awkward. Antony has to commentate again, no doubt while Enobarbus and Agrippa and others present smirk and nudge each other, Antony the great lover, the charismatic leader of men (certainly in comparison to Caesar) on the back foot, a mere bystander now. But his conceit is a pretty one, and not mocking, as he compares Octavia’s inability to speak aloud, to say what she really feels, to make her tongue obey her heart and her heart inform, instruct her tongue what to say, to a delicate swan’s-down feather, caught upon the swell, the still water just at the full of the tide, its height before it begins to drop, not able to move in either direction, motionless, trapped. It’s an apt image for Octavia, caught in the middle and unable to speak her mind or say how she really feels—but she’s far stronger and more steely than any feather.