ANTONY         You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha,

Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome,

Forborne the getting of a lawful race,

And by a gem of women, to be abused

By one that looks on feeders?

CLEOPATRA              Good my lord—

ANTONY         You have been a boggler ever.

But when we in our viciousness grow hard—

O misery on’t!—the wise gods seel our eyes,

In our own filth drop our clear judgements, make us

Adore our errors, laugh at’s while we strut

To our confusion.

CLEOPATRA              O, is’t come to this?   (3.13.104-115)

 

All Antony’s shame and guilt and anger and fear now comes pouring out, as he turns on Cleopatra and lets rip. You were half blasted ere I knew you; even before we met you’d been around the block—and you’re old, too, withered, dried up—and diseased, even. Blighted, broken, second-hand. Used goods. What have I done? Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome—and there’s a visual contrast implied here, between crisp white linen, unspotted and uncreased, and dirty, worn-out Cleopatra, lipstick on her pillows, definitely, and the sheets haven’t been changed in weeks—have I not even slept with my wife, my actual lawful wife, thereby forbearing the getting of a lawful race, not taking the opportunity of fathering children, my own legitimate heirs, and by a gem of women, lovely, pure, pretty, virtuous Octavia, a Roman paragon—I’ve left my wife, to be abused by one that looks on feeders? for you to go behind my back, and flirt, play around (and even worse, perhaps, negotiate) with this slick operator, this parasitical, manipulative toady? Feeder is grossly sensual here, another contrast with dainty Octavia. (Octavia is not dainty, she is steely and smart and pragmatic; historically she and Antony had children together.) What the hell, says Antony? And he’s only just getting started; Cleopatra tries to interrupt, to pacify or deny—good my lord—but no chance. You have been a boggler ever! Flighty, inconstant, greedy—slut. (A boggler is, apparently, a hawk that goes after multiple quarries, switching between them.)

 

Then Antony changes tack slightly to self-reproach, self-disgust. But when we in our viciousness grow hard, when we become accustomed to vice and luxury, harden our hearts to virtue—o misery on’t! oh the shame—the wise gods seel our eyes, we become blind to the immorality and loathsomeness of what we’re doing, like hawks with their eyes sewn shut. And we lose our heads, can’t tell right from wrong any longer, drop our clear judgements, our consciences, our reason and our moral compass in our own filth, our polluted, dirty, degradation. Sweaty sheets, not pristine pillows. Even worse, instead of being repelled by our own debaucheries, we adore our errors, keep repeating them as if we were worshipping false gods. We’re foul and fallen. The gods laugh at us while we strut to our confusion, as we prance grotesquely to our own downfall.

 

O, is’t come to this? Is this what you really think of me, and of us? Or, are you now going to resort to these cheap insults, this bitter invective? Cleopatra can’t but be wounded by this bile, which travesties and, even more, regrets their passion. But Antony’s got much more yet to say.