CAESAR Say this becomes him—
As his composure must be rare indeed
Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony
No way excuse his foils when we do bear
So great weight in his lightness. If he filled
His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
Call on him for’t. But to confound such time
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid—
As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
And so rebel to judgement. (1.4.21-33)
It’s a sly (and interesting) contrast and comparison here that Caesar, once he gets going, is every bit as unstoppable as Cleopatra. And what he has to say about Antony is altogether damning; having sarcastically listed Antony’s misdemeanours (the drunken revelry, the affair with Cleopatra) he counters Lepidus’s inclination to indulge Antony’s faults with forensic, point by point demolition. Say (for the sake of argument) that this becomes him, that Antony can be allowed to get away with everything I’ve just described, that it’s as expected, even fitting—though his composure must be rare indeed whom these things cannot blemish, you’d have to be a saint and a hero not to have your character tainted by all of these faults, your reputation damaged. But the problem is, we are coping with the fall-out, we’re having to compensate for Antony’s foils, his weaknesses and shortcomings; we bear so great weight in his lightness.
If he filled his vacancy with his voluptuousness, if Antony did all this—chiefly his blatant affair with Cleopatra, indulging his appetites, sexual and otherwise—on his own time, at his leisure—then he’d pay the price of that accordingly, with full surfeits and the dryness of his bones, tummy trouble and sexually transmitted diseases. (Caesar is puritanical about all forms of excess and consumption, which he sees as inextricably linked.) Antony’s wasting time, confounding it, and he’s making fools of us by having so little respect for our rank and our responsibilities, our state, which he is meant to share. We’ve summoned him urgently, drummed him from his sport (an order which, as a military man, he should obey) and if he’s coming at all, it’s in his own sweet time—he’s wasting our time too. He should damn well be chid, he’s earned our disapproval, and a scolding, just for that. But, even more, he’s like a boy who is rated, berated, told off, who should know better, who is meant to be mature in knowledge, who has attained the age of reason, and still pawns his experience to his present pleasure. Antony knows what he should do, as a soldier, a Roman, a leader, and a man—and yet he’s still prepared to set it all aside, duty and honour and the demands of political and military strategy and experience, all the things he knows all too well—for the sake of present pleasure, the delights he cannot abandon, instant gratification, Cleopatra’s bed. And so he is a rebel to judgement, unreasonable, foolish, and a voluptuous beast. (Antony himself, in Julius Caesar, sticking the metaphorical knife into Brutus: ‘O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason’.)