ANTONY         Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept

His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck

The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’twas I

That the mad Brutus ended. He alone

Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had

In the brave squares of war. Yet now—no matter.

CLEOPATRA  [rising, to Charmian and Iras] Ah, stand by.

EROS   The Queen, my lord, the Queen.

IRAS    Go to him, madam.

Speak to him. He’s unqualitied

With very shame.

CLEOPATRA  Well then, sustain me. O!     (3.11.35-45)

Antony’s still stuck inside his own head, going over and over his humiliation, but he’s dwelling on one particular aspect of it, that it’s Caesar who’s beaten him. He might be addressing Eros with yes, my lord, yes, but he’s not engaging, he doesn’t realise who’s there (otherwise he wouldn’t address Eros as my lord) and he certainly doesn’t seem to have noticed Cleopatra. That he doesn’t name Caesar, referring to him only, repeatedly, as he, echoes the way in which Caesar himself has been reluctant to name Antony and, especially, Cleopatra. Antony is dwelling on his own military past and comparing his own conduct then with Caesar’s: he at Philippi kept his sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck the lean and wrinkled Cassius. At that climactic battle, when we were on the same side, he hung back, as if his sword were—like a dancer’s—only for show, to be worn, not drawn. Comparing him to a dancer makes Caesar lightweight, even effeminate, whereas Antony (he says) struck the lean and wrinkled Cassius, that doughty, stoic, contrary veteran. And ’twas I, he continues, that the mad Brutus ended. Me, I was the one who did everything, who made the tough calls, did the killing, even of those admirable, misguided, wrong-headed men. (Actually Antony is embellishing here, as his audience, onstage and off, should know: both Cassius and Brutus died by suicide.) He—Caesar—he, he alone dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had in the brave squares of war. He was a strategy man, let others get their hands dirty, do his dirty work for him. He was above it, didn’t get involved in the bloody business. He hung back, aloof. Armchair general. (Shades here of Iago’s dislike of Cassio: Antony’s not putting himself in a good light.) Yet now—no matter. And it could be that Antony’s consoling himself: well, none of that matters any more. Or else he’s interrupting himself, realising he’s getting nowhere with this petty string of half-truths: time to stop. No matter. Nothing else to be said about it, no matter what else I can dredge up.

Cleopatra again: ah, stand by, not wait a moment, get ready, but rather, support me, hold me up; she might be faint again, recoiling, trying to get Antony’s attention or rather evading it, unable to cope with his delusions, his distress, his failure. Eros, though, will try again, formal this time: the Queen, my lord, the Queen. Trying to get Antony to focus on something, perhaps anything, trying to recall him to the present. Iras gets it: go to him, madam. Speak to him. He’s unqualitied with very shame; he’s beside himself with it, completely unmanned. He’s not himself and yet he hates himself; he needs you. And Cleopatra will, it seems, try, with the help of her companions. Well then, sustain me. Give me strength, support me, back me up. O! A cry for help, an expression of pain and shock, a first attempt to attract Antony’s attention?