ANTONY                     ’Tis well blown, lads.

This morning, like the spirit of a youth

That means to be of note, begins betimes.

So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said.

Fare thee well, dame. Whate’er becomes of me,

This is a soldier’s kiss. [He kisses Cleopatra] Rebukable

And worthy shameful check it were to stand

On more mechanic compliment. I’ll leave thee

Now like a man of steel. You that will fight,

Follow me close. I’ll bring you to’t. Adieu.

Exeunt [all but Cleopatra and Charmian]    (4.4.25-34)

’Tis well blown, lads, both the trumpets (especially if they’re more enthusiastic than harmonious) and the morning, flowering into day—but what matters here more is the lads, another marker of Antony’s identification with his men and the battle at hand; it’s also a version of the good fellows, his affectionate treatment of his servants. Antony’s great oscillation in this play: the hero, the warrior, the general, all but godlike—one of the lads, one of the boys, the host, the householder. And in between? But now it’s time for war, that’s all he can think of, and that means an early start: this morning, like the spirit of a youth that means to be of note, begins betimes. There’s eagerness here, imagining the young man hungrily ambitious for advancement and fame. Caesar is that man; Antony no longer is, but he knows how to speak to that impulse in his troops, however disingenuously.

Antony’s next words could be addressed to Cleopatra, still arming him, and some editors suggest that: so, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said. She’s fussing, he’s slightly impatient, preoccupied—or his words could be directed at his captains, at Eros, concerning notes, a map, bits of armour; the latest intel, the weather report, a radio, a revolver, as Cleopatra’s suddenly side-lined. Antony isn’t hers, in this moment. Whatever, they’re about to part and there’s no time, it’d muddled and distracted and public. But he—sort of?—pulls it back: fare thee well, dame. Not ‘love’ or ‘lass’, but at least less formal (although it’s metrically driven, probably) than ‘lady’. Whate’er becomes of me—fear, they haven’t had the time to talk about the possibility of defeat, let alone of him not coming back from the battle at all—this is a soldier’s kiss. This is me, off to do my thing again. It’d absolutely not be the done thing, and worthy of censure, rebukable and worthy shameful check, a proper telling off, it were to stand on more mechanic compliment. I’m not going to say more, to prolong this into an extended, self-indulgent scene of farewell—that’d be ignoble, common. We’re above that. (And he can’t start saying all the things because he won’t be able to stop; the bluffness and the reticence in front of the lads is a front, a self-protection for himself and for her too, partly.) I’ll leave thee now like a man of steel, hard and unyielding, in this armoured carapace, not showing emotion. You that will fight, follow me close. I’ll bring you to’t. Soldiers, with me; stick together. Let’s do this. Adieu. Goodbye.

And she’s barely said a word.