Enter an armed Soldier

ANTONY         Good morrow to thee. Welcome.

Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge.

To business that we love we rise betime,

And go to’t with delight.

SOLDIER                     A thousand, sir,

Early though’t be, have on their riveted trim,

And at the port expect you.

Shout [within]. Trumpets flourish. Enter Captains and Soldiers

CAPTAIN        The morn is fair. Good morrow, General.

ALL THE SOLDIERS   Good morrow, General.        (4.4.18-25)

The playful, intimate near-domesticity is abruptly halted: enter an armed Soldier. Antony (and Eros) probably don’t have helmets on yet, but this soldier might (although it is inside…)—so the contrast, the intrusion is stark. And Antony’s focus has to change, he has to go into general mode, into battle mode. Good morrow to thee (but he still uses the more familiar address, thee: Antony’s soldiers are his intimates too, he is a great leader loved by his men). Welcome. Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge. You’re ready for battle, aren’t you, and you have the look of someone who’s not only ready, but bringing a message, battle orders, news, instructions. The soldier is the latest in the play’s many messengers, but he’s definitively a soldier; no more politicking or lovers’ letters now. Antony’s switch from lover to warrior is both reinforced and complicated by his idiom: to business that we love we rise betime, and go to’t with delight. It’s easy to get up early (again emphasising the time of day—and it’s going to be a long one) if you love your job; you simply can’t wait to get out there and get on with it. The other business that Antony loves and delights in is Cleopatra, and he rises early for her too, although not quite in the same sense… but she’s cut out here, and her physical alienation from Antony from this point in the scene might be quite stark; she and Charmian outnumbered by the men. The solder has—quite?—good news, and he’s full of enthusiasm: a thousand, sir, early though’t be, have on their riveted trim, and at the port expect you. There are a thousand men already armed (their armour is riveted, imagined as being more steely than the leather often seen in performance: they’re hard, shining, the antithesis of the soft beds of Egypt). And they’re at the gate, waiting for you, all ready to go. Now noise intrudes too, shouting, and the sound of trumpets—and more men, as many as can be managed, their blood up, full of energy and nerves. The captain is more formal than the first messenger, and perhaps more realistic, less fired up: the morn is fair. Nice day for it. Good morrow, General. And the soldiers? They could be in a happy, hyped-up mass, shouting over each other—good morrow, General! Here we are, we couldn’t wait to see you! Or else drilled, regimented, speaking as one, the military machine that Antony must command. Good morrow, General—that’s who Antony must be, now, the identity he’s put on with his armour as leader and warrior, not lover.