CHARMIAN                             So, fare thee well.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies

A lass unparalleled. Downy windows, close,

And golden Phoebus, never be beheld

Of eyes again so royal. Your crown’s awry.

I’ll mend it, and then play—Enter the Guard, rustling in

FIRST GUARD             Where’s the Queen?

CHARMIAN Speak softly. Wake her not.

FIRST GUARD Caesar hath sent—

CHARMIAN Too slow a messenger.

[She takes an aspic]

O come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee. (5.2.303-312)

Charmian, sometimes given to sardonic sharpness, is here so tender, so dignified: so, fare thee well. You’ve done it, off you go. Mostly, she’s speaking to Cleopatra alone, still taking care of her, making sure that everything necessary is done. Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies a lass unparalleled. What a jewel you now have in your keeping, death—even more, someone completely unique, completely herself—and lass is brilliant, and heart-breaking, because queen would scan every bit as well—but lass is the woman who charmed Antony, hopped and skipped and flounced and dressed up and played jokes and talked dirty and threw tantrums and loved her friends and Antony above all else, for good or ill. A lass unparalleled, one of the girls, these three, together at the last. Then a shift of register again: downy windows, close—perhaps Charmian closes Cleopatra’s eyes, careful, intimate again, and so soft and gentle—and golden Phoebus, never be beheld of eyes again so royal. The sun will never be looked on by such royal eyes ever again. (A sense, perhaps, that day is approaching, that the sun is rising, following on from the eastern star a few lines earlier.) Another shift, back to her accustomed role as handmaiden: your crown’s awry, not quite straight, not perfect. So I’ll mend it, and then play. Just one small adjustment, so you look your best, and then my work here, my work for you, is done. Time for me, too, to take my leave; without you, all the time in the world, to play until doomsday.

A bustle and noise, and the guards arrive: where’s the Queen? What’s going on? Too late—so that Charmian can continue the illusion, that drowsy tempo, untouched by politics and noise and men: speak softly. Wake her not. Sssshhh. You need to whisper here. The first guard is urgent: Caesar hath sent—he wants to know—something—but Charmian’s not listening and doesn’t care; what Caesar might want or want to know is now utterly irrelevant. He’s sent too slow a messenger. That’s that. Caesar’s too late, you’re all too late. And that’s all she’s going to say to them because her focus, too, is now on the deadly snakes, as she takes one and, like Cleopatra, provokes it: o come apace, dispatch! Get on with it, hurry up! I partly feel thee!