ANTONY                     Get thee back to Caesar;

Tell him thy entertainment. Look thou say

He makes me angry with him, for he seems

Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,

Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry,

And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t,

When my good stars that were my former guides

Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires

Into th’abyss of hell. If he mislike

My speech and what is done, tell him he has

Hipparchus, my enfranchised bondman, whom

He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,

As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou.

Hence, with thy stripes, be gone!

Exeunt [Servants with] Thidias         (3.13.140-153)

So get thee back to Caesar and tell him thy entertainment. Go on, get out—crawl back to your boss and tell him all about the warm welcome we gave you. And tell Caesar, look thou say, make sure of it, he makes me angry with him: this is his fault. He made me angry; he made me do it. He seems proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, not what he knew I was. This is all down to his attitude, being ungracious in victory, and insulting me by mocking my present state rather than treating me with respect for my glorious deeds in the past, my reputation. (Don’t disrespect me! the cry of the fragile-egoed man, the abuser, throughout history.) He makes me angry (again, Caesar’s fault—is the blame shifting from Cleopatra? perhaps?)—and at this time most easy ’tis to do’t; I admit most things do irritate me at the moment, provoke me into a rage, to fly off the handle. Bit of a short fuse—because it seems that fortune is against me, and my good stars that were my former guides have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires into th’abyss of hell. Things are bad, really bad; my world’s falling apart, into chaos and darkness. It feels like the end of the world, like everything’s over. A brief moment of (poetic) grandeur and status for Antony, as if he’s talking to himself more that to Thidias—or perhaps he’s addressing these words to Cleopatra? A moment of crisis, way beyond the immediate sorry, squalid circumstances. A fall. But then he’s back to pettiness, and ruthlessness. If he, Caesar, mislike my speech and what is done, if he has any objections, tell him he has Hipparchus, my enfranchised bondman—a freedman, a former slave—so if he wants to get into tit for tat, Caesar may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, as he shall like, to quit me. He can take it out on Hipparchus, his objections, and get even that way. Urge it thou; yes, you tell him that. Hence, with thy stripes, be gone! Crawl back to your master, and lick your wounds. Go on, piss off!