CAESAR                      O, Antony,

I have followed thee to this. But we do lance

Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce

Have shown to thee such a declining day,

Or look on thine. We could not stall together

In the whole world. But yet let me lament,

With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,

That thou, my brother, my competitor

In top of all design, my mate in empire,

Friend and companion in the front of war,

The arm of mine own body, and the heart

Where mine his thoughts did kindle—that our stars,

Unreconciliable, should divide

Our equalness to this.           (5.1.35-48)

Caesar works through his position, justifies it, attempts to express the complexity of his emotions. O, Antony, I have followed thee to this. I brought you to this end; my pursuit of you is to blame for what you’ve done. Then a qualification, a justification (and a brief turn to metaphor): but we do lance diseases in our bodies. I had no choice, you were like an infection in the body politic that had to be purged—and an irritation in my own existence that had to be dealt with. It was you or me, one of us had to go, and therefore I must perforce have shown to thee such a declining day, been defeated by you, been brought low by you, or else look on thine, witness your downfall. The world wasn’t big enough for the both of us, it seems, and we could not stall together in the whole world. We couldn’t share the empire; we couldn’t peaceably co-exist. But yet let me lament: I can still mourn, and in fact I still have to mourn. I must lament with tears as sovereign, every bit as potent as the blood of hearts (Antony’s heart’s blood; Caesar’s grief is heartfelt, powerful, deep) that thou, Antony, my brother, my competitor in top of all design—my partner, not just my rival, the two of us for a time leading all our great schemes, our dreams—my mate in empire, with whom I ruled the world, my friend and companion in the front of war, standing shoulder to shoulder in the vanguard of the battle, the arm of mine own body, as close to me as another limb, and as active and protective on my behalf—and the heart of my body, where mine his thoughts did kindle—he was like my heart, a motive force within my body, the thing that kept me going, gave me purpose—I must lament, with every aspect of my being, that it’s come to this. That our stars, unreconciliable, should divide our equalness to this. That fate, ultimately, has divided us, caused such an irreparable breach in our great and equal partnership.

It has to be believable that Caesar isn’t being hypocritical here, that he’s deeply shocked and profoundly upset by an outcome which he expected and even pursued, Antony’s death, even as he’s relieved. He’s been fascinated by Antony throughout, and in many respects defined himself against him—but this is the end of an era for Caesar, both as a character who has lost his identity-defining partner and rival, and as a moment of generational shift. Antony was a link with Julius Caesar, and with Brutus and the other conspirators: now only Caesar remains, and the empire is his alone. (This knotty psychological interdependence looks forward to Shakespeare’s next and final tragedy, Coriolanus, and its protagonist’s fraught, shockingly intimate relationship with his enemy Aufidius.)