DOLABELLA Hear me, good madam:
Your loss is as yourself, great, and you bear it
As answering to the weight. Would I might never
O’ertake pursued success but I do feel,
By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites
My very heart at root.
CLEOPATRA I thank you, sir.
Know you what Caesar means to do with me?
DOLABELLA I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.
CLEOPATRA Nay, pray you, sir.
DOLABELLA Though he be honourable—
CLEOPATRA He’ll lead me then in triumph.
DOLABELLA Madam, he will, I know’t. (5.2.99-108)
At least momentarily, Cleopatra’s run out of steam, and Dolabella needs to get her to listen to him. He does it by letting her know that he’s listened to her, that he respects her, that he has some sense of the pain that she’s in. Hear me, good madam: your loss is as yourself, great. This is huge; I can see that you are utterly bereft and lost. You are of such status yourself, and yet you are bearing this great loss as answering to the weight, in a manner proportional to its magnitude. I hear you, and I see you. And I feel for you, he adds: would I might never o’ertake pursued success, achieve my ambitions (he certainly acknowledges that he’s ambitious) but I do feel, unless I have enough humanity to experience something of your pain, by the rebound of yours—Cleopatra’s grief has a kind of forcefield around it, it’s palpable, it vibrates other bodies beyond her own—a grief that smites my very heart at root. I feel your suffering deep within me; I feel something of your pain.
Cleopatra will take that, with simple dignity: I thank you, sir. So she trusts him enough, perhaps, to ask her question directly: know you what Caesar means to do with me? What’s in store? Dolabella’s still ambitious enough, politic enough to prevaricate: I am loath to tell you what I would you knew. I’d really like to tell you! But I really shouldn’t, I can’t. I’m not meant to say. Simple dignity again, and politeness (although as always there’s the possibility to play the complete opposite, a haughty peremptoriness): come on, please. Nay, pray you, sir. We understand each other. Dolabella tries to soften it—though he be honourable, Caesar that is—but the caveat’s enough, she knows what’s in store. He’ll lead me then in triumph, finishes Cleopatra. I know what you’re going to say. The thing she most dreads. And all Dolabella can do is confirm, courteously, definitively: madam, he will, I know’t. Yup.