CLEOPATRA Get thee hence, farewell.
CLOWN I wish you all joy of the worm.
CLEOPATRA Farewell.
CLOWN You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.
CLEOPATRA Ay, ay; farewell.
CLOWN Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.
CLEOPATRA Take thou no care, it shall be heeded.
CLOWN Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding.
CLEOPATRA Will it eat me?
CLOWN You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman: I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five.
CLEOPATRA Well, get thee gone, farewell.
CLOWN Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o’th’ worm.
Exit (5.2.251-268)
That’s enough, you can leave now, goodbye: get thee hence, farewell. Cleopatra thinks that this little exchange has gone on long enough; the countryman’s just getting started. I wish you all joy of the worm! It’s a strange formulation, more than just, enjoy your snake! and it does introduce joy, or the possibility of joy, into this strange and desperate situation (and it’s got the quality of congratulation, perhaps to a happy couple: God give you joy!); Cleopatra is certainly joyful at many points in what is to come. For now, however, she tries again. Farewell. Goodbye! He tries again too, he’s got to get his point across securely: you must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind. Whatever happens, worm’s going to worm. You can take a snake out of a basket but… Yes, OK, alright. Goodbye! Ay, ay; farewell. But the countryman wants to make sure she’s grasped his central premise, that the snake is dangerous, deadly: look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm. You’ve got to be careful with it, handle it carefully, otherwise it can all go horribly wrong. This is a venomous snake! This is a bad worm! And she does appreciate his solicitousness: don’t worry, all your advice will be followed, to the letter; take thou no care, it shall be heeded. (And whatever happens, you won’t get the blame—this may be his concern too, covering his back, as much as genuine worry.) Alright, very good. But then he seems to identify another concern: give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding. Don’t feed the snake! It’s not worth the bother, and the risk. This amuses Cleopatra: will it eat me? this little snake, can it eat me all up? Bad move, introducing this possibility; it’s another cue for garrulity. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman. You won’t catch me out like that, I didn’t come down in the last shower! There’s nothing that’d eat a woman, not even the devil himself—because a woman is a dish for the gods, heavenly food, virtuous, sweet and delicious—that is, if the devil dress her not, if she’s not been prepared and made ready by the devil for his own consumption. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. And so the clown returns to the theme on which, clearly, he could expound for even longer, the sinfulness of women, or rather their sad propensity to fallenness: women are all very well—made in the image, etc etc—but then devils get into them, so that there’s not one virtuous woman left out of every two. Somehow, Cleopatra manages to shut him up: well, get thee gone, farewell, and he finally gets the message. Yes, forsooth, of course. Just going. I wish you joy o’th’ worm. And the little phrase lands even more strangely, resonantly. Have a nice day! Have a good death!