Enter Guardsman, and Clown [with a basket]

GUARDSMAN             This is the man.

CLEOPATRA   Avoid, and leave him.

Exit Guardsman

Hast thou the pretty worm

Of Nilus there, that kills and pains not?

CLOWN           Truly, I have him; but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.

CLEOPATRA Remember’st thou any that have died on’t?

CLOWN Very many, men, and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday, a very honest woman, but something given to lie, as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty, how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly, she makes a very good report o’th’ worm; but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do; but this is most falliable: the worm’s an odd worm.            (5.2.237-250)

Here he is, says the guard, this is the man, resignedly, or bemusedly. Whatever. Avoid, and leave him, replies Cleopatra, firm almost to the point of rudeness. Go on, get out. It’s partly to set up her courteous, even gentle—but still direct, possibly urgent—question to the clown, the countryman. No pleasantries, straight down to business. Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, that little, innocuous Egyptian serpent, that kills and pains not? Have you brought the means of painless death with you, in the form of a snake?

Somehow, there’s room for comedy, for the latest—almost the last?—in a long series of garrulous, malapropistic peasants or mechanicals, a successor of sorts to Much Ado’s Dogberry, a glimpse of a lost world of slow, wondering prose, in which the stakes are low and there is endless, slightly anxious good will and good intentions. He’s an English clown, an English countryman; he’s nostalgic in many ways, in Shakespeare’s career, and perhaps a nostalgic figure for a London audience too. Truly, I have him—the worm, the fatal snake—but I would not be the party that would desire you to touch him—but honestly, if you’re asking my advice? you shouldn’t touch him, I don’t want to let you have him, ask you to touch him or hold him—because he’s dangerous, this snake! his biting is immortal! (He means mortal, deadly; he also speaks true, because the fatal snake bite will ensure Cleopatra’s immortality, seal her legendary status.) And he clarifies, in case Cleopatra hasn’t quite understood: this snake, he is so deadly that those that die of it do seldom or never recover. They stay dead once he’s bitten them! Mostly! (Is Cleopatra smiling yet? or is she frustrated?) Perhaps she wants to hear a bit of a story; even with the urgency of situation, she’s taking some pleasure in this earnest, eager to please countryman. (Or, alternatively, she wants to know for sure, she wants reassurance that this snake will do the job.) Remember’st thou any that have died on’t? Do you know anyone personally who died after being bitten by this snake? Or is this all just hearsay and rumour? Oh absolutely, he can give her a categorical assurance. Very many, men, and women too. Heaps! I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday, just the other day in fact, a very honest woman (as if that makes the anecdote all the more reliable)—and then his own honesty gets the better of him, his scrupulousness—but something given to lie. (Does he realise he’s getting tangled up? Doesn’t matter, this all has its own logic. And in any case he can get a bit of innuendo in; this woman, she was given to lying—with men. Slept around, and yes, she certainly liked ‘snakes’.) Yes, she was a liar alright, and that’s a bad thing, as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty—she was an honest liar! Or at least an honest whore! So that’s fine. Anyway… I heard, about this woman, how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. I heard all about it! Truly, she makes a very good report o’th’ worm; she had nothing but good things to say about this particular snake death (sex) experience, everything she’d hoped for, ten out of ten… Anyway. (He realises he’s painting himself into a corner, perhaps, reaches for a slightly gnomic aphorism.) He that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do. You can’t believe a thing that women say! You’d be a fool to believe them! Or to trust them! But this is most falliable—he means infallible—you can completely take my word for it on this. The worm’s an odd worm. Oh, it’s a funny creature.

There is the sense that the clown is just pausing for breath, that he could keep going on in this way for some time, tying himself up in knots, full of innuendo and well-meaning clarification, digging ever-deeper holes…  While Cleopatra—what? Laughs, perhaps. And Charmian too, if she’s there. (It’s unclear whether she’s exited again with Iras.)