ANTONY         I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and

Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now

All length is torture. Since the torch is out,

Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour

Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles

Itself with strength. Seal, then, and all is done.

Eros!—I come, my queen.—Eros!—Stay for me.

Where souls do couch on flowers we’ll hand in hand,

And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.

Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,

And all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros, Eros!         (4.15.44-54)

Antony’s full of remorse, and purpose: I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and weep for my pardon. He’s about to die, to kill himself, and imagines that he’ll be able to catch Cleopatra and, in tears, beg for her forgiveness. And he’s resolute: so it must be, and quickly, for now all length is torture. I can’t bear to delay, or to live any longer. Since the torch is out, lie down and stray no farther: another evocation of day’s end, the dying of the light—and of Antony’s utter exhaustion. Time to stop running, stop fighting, stop making mistakes; time to sleep. Because now all labour mars what it does: every effort to continue, every effort to fight back just makes it worse, does even more damage; yea, very force entangles itself with strength. Antony’s like an animal caught in a trap: the more he tries to fight back, the tighter the noose. Seal, then, and all is done. Time for a decision; time to end it, once and for all.

So he calls for Eros to come back again—then calls on Cleopatra to wait: I come, my queen. (She is unambiguously his queen once more.) Eros, again. Stay for me; wait, Cleopatra. And then a lyrical, ecstatic evocation of their reunion in death: where souls do couch on flowers we’ll hand in hand, wandering together in the Elysian fields; and with our sprightly port we’ll make the ghosts gaze. As they walk together, their bearing, their conduct—as they saunter through paradise, dance, even, lively (but also ghostly) all those dead won’t be able to take their eyes off them. We’ll give them something to look at! (The fields of the dead seem akin to the streets of Alexandria, a stage on which Cleopatra and Antony can revel together once more; there’s a touch of exhibitionism to Antony’s vision of the afterlife.) Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops—even those great lovers will find that their followers desert them—and all the haunt, the entire realm, will be ours; all of those blessed spirits will dance in our train. It’s an epic and ecstatic vision of death, the lovers not only together again, for ever, but pre-eminent.

So come, Eros, Eros! Come, faithful servant! Come, love!