ANTONY                     But that your royalty

Holds idleness your subject, I should take you

For idleness itself.

CLEOPATRA   ’Tis sweating labour

To bear such idleness so near the heart

As Cleopatra this. But sir, forgive me,

Since my becomings kill me when they do not

Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence—

Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,

And all the gods go with you. Upon your sword

Sit laurel victory, and smooth success

Be strewed before your feet.

ANTONY                     Let us go. Come.

Our separation so abides and flies

That thou residing here, goes yet with me,

And I hence fleeting, here remain with thee.

Away.

Exeunt                         (1.3.92-106)

 

Antony’s response is slightly oblique, and in performance physical action can take over. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re in charge here, the one controlling all this idleness and levity, these recreations and diversions, this lack of seriousness, I’d take you for idleness, the thing itself, he says to Cleopatra. Oh it’s hard work, sweating labour, believe me, she retorts, to be as idle as this, to take such ‘recreations’, such idleness so much to heart, to take levity itself so seriously. (In a way she’s saying, it’s hard work loving you; it’s hard work making it seem as if I don’t care as much as I do.) And she’s now, apparently, being serious. But sir, forgive me, since my becomings kill me when they do not eye well to you. All my charms, my beauty, all my tricks and beguiling ways count for nothing if they don’t please you, if—in your eyes—they’re not appealing.

So Cleopatra demonstrates that she actually gets it. Your honour calls you hence, whether that’s as a soldier, a Roman, a political leader, or even as a husband. You’ve got to go, I understand. And I’m not going to stand in your way; you’ve got to ignore me. Be deaf to my unpitied folly (a little dig there, perhaps? You don’t have to indulge my foolishness, my sentimental longing for you; it’s right—perhaps—that you don’t pity me) and all the gods go with you. Good luck! Good fortune! Upon your sword sit laurel victory, and smooth success be strewed before your feet. A stark contrast with her mocking of his sword and target just a moment ago: she now envisages him as the great hero entering Rome in triumph, crowned with the laurels of victory, with success carpeting his way like flowers.

Antony’s won over. Let us go. Come. His juxtaposition of go and come introduces what he’s about to say, a consoling compromise: our separation so abides and flies that thou residing here, goes yet with me, and I hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Nothing can really separate us: wherever I go, you’ll be with me, and I’ll be staying here with you too. Our souls are united, and so it doesn’t matter if our bodies have to part. Really, it doesn’t. It doesn’t. (Donne’s great ‘Valediction: forbidding mourning’ makes the same promise, and can be read as striking a similar note of ambivalence, of protesting too much. Eyes, lips and hands will be very much missed here.)

They can exit in opposite directions—some editors suggest that—or else together, utterly wrapped up in each other until the very moment of parting.

And that’s the end of this extraordinary scene.