SCARUS                                  She once being luffed,

The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,

Claps on his sea-wing and, like a doting mallard,

Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.

I never saw an action of such shame.

Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before

Did violate so itself.

ENOBARBUS              Alack, alack!   (3.10.17-23)

Luffed or loofed is a great word, a sailing term: Shakespeare’s apparently using it incorrectly, because it describes a ship having its head pointed into the wind, ready to go—but Cleopatra’s already flown, is out of there—so it might be another related term, aloof, meaning already some way off. Whatever, the sound is probably the point in performance: Scarus can snarl it, almost, with a camp, dismissive note on the double F; it makes Cleopatra sound both ridiculous and ungainly, that cow under sail. More seriously, and evocatively, Antony is the noble ruin of her magic, a brilliant description of the way and extent to which Antony is entirely in Cleopatra’s thrall; his former status is still apparent but he’s a shadow of his former glory, and Scarus is coming close to calling her a witch. And as soon as he sees Cleopatra leave the field, Antony claps on his sea-wing, hoists his own sails: Scarus has already turned him into a bird with that metaphor, but what kind—a Roman eagle? No, like a doting mallard, a foolish, lust-driven duck, he flies after her, leaving the fight in height, when it was at its fiercest and most crucial moment. Antony, reduced to a love-sick duck. I never saw an action of such shame. No more horses, cows, or ducks here, but simply this Roman soldier’s abject shame at what his former hero, that revered general has done, what he has been reduced to. Experience, all his heroism on the battlefield and his expertise as a strategist; manhood, his very status as a man, his masculine prowess and identity, his virility even; honour, the greatest treasure any man could have, so often moot for Shakespeare’s heroes—all thrown away. At stake here in particular is virtus, the Roman ideal of masculine stoic virtue, which contains within itself vir, the word for man. All those things did violate themselves, to an extent never before seen. Antony’s betrayed himself, conquered himself; he’s become effeminate, impotent, and he’s been comprehensively and violently screwed. By himself. Alack, alack! is Enobarbus’s response—and it’s hard not to hear quack, quack!