Enter Antony and Octavia

ANTONY                     Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,

That were excusable, that and thousands more

Of semblable import; but he hath waged

New wars ’gainst Pompey, made his will and read it

To public ear, spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not

But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly

He vented them, most narrow measure lent me.

When the best hint was given him, he not took’t,

Or did it from his teeth.        (3.4.1-9)

Well, what do you know, it’s the newlyweds, and it seems there’s trouble in paradise already. Antony and Octavia are mid conversation—not quite an argument yet, perhaps, but certainly a fraught discussion. For the first few lines, it’s not clear who’s at fault here, the impression perhaps being, fleetingly, that it’s Octavia herself (you can almost hear Cleopatra’s glee). Nay, nay, Octavia, I disagree, you’re wrong, Antony is saying, not only that, some unspecified misdemeanour: that were excusable, I could let that slide—in fact I would be prepared to overlook that and thousands more of semblable import, lots of other slights or missteps or faults or disadvantageous actions of a similar magnitude. All of that, I could cope with; water off a duck’s back, more or less. But he—aha, he, and there can only be one he here, Octavius Caesar, Antony’s brother-in-law—he’s been completely out of order and I won’t stand for it. Here’s the charge sheet. He hath waged new wars ’gainst Pompey, when we went to all that trouble to make peace, give in to some of his demands, defuse a situation that was getting dangerously out of control. (And Pompey, he became my new best friend! I stuck my neck out for him!) He made his will and read it to public ear, currying favour with the Roman people by promising them bequests. (There’s a bit of mangling of sources here, but it allows a parallel with Julius Caesar, when it’s Antony who reads Caesar’s will to the people after his assassination, to win them over from Brutus.) And—perhaps most importantly—he spoke scantly of me. Caesar’s being rude about me, putting me down! And when perforce he could not but pay me terms of honour, when he really had to be polite and deferential, show me proper respect—well, then he was so grudging, his praise of me was cold and sickly, miserly. He lent me most narrow measure, simply didn’t accord me the degree of respect and honour I deserve, to which I am entitled. (Git.) (Antony can sound quite petty here.) Even when the best hint was given him, when he was given every opportunity to honour me and say nice things—which are only my due!—he simply wouldn’t take the bait. And if he really couldn’t avoid it, he did it from his teeth. That’s a great image, Caesar praising Antony through gritted teeth, but also paying him lip service only, ‘mouth honour’ as Macbeth accuses his false, fair-weather friends of doing to him. Your brother’s mean, grumpy, and petty too, Antony is whining, at least a bit, to his wife. Stop making excuses for him!