ANTONY         I am dying, Egypt, dying. Only

I here importune death awhile until

Of many thousand kisses the poor last

I lay upon thy lips.

CLEOPATRA   I dare not, dear,

Dear, my lord, pardon. I dare not,

Lest I be taken. Not th’imperious show

Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall

Be brooched with me, if knife, drugs, serpents, have

Edge, sting, or operation. I am safe.

Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour

Demuring upon me.              (4.16.19-30)

Antony is a magnificent synthesis of leader and lover, in his address to Cleopatra: I am dying, Egypt, dying. She is Egypt as ruler, as queen, but he comes to her as a supplicant lover, begging, importuning death to hold off a moment longer to allow him to kiss her just one more time, until of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips. The general desires nothing more than one final kiss from his queen, a morsel, a fragment, a second—just a kiss. He also, implicitly, wants her to come down to him, to come out of the monument, but she is adamant, and explains in intimate, yet courteous words (and she’s frightened)—I dare not, dear, dear, my lord, pardon. I can’t. Please forgive me. Her reasons for not coming down are exactly the same ones as Antony used to explain his decision to kill himself to Eros. She doesn’t want to risk being captured by Caesar (I dare not, lest I be taken) and, above all, she does not want to become Caesar’s trophy in his Roman triumph: not th’imperious show of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall be brooched with me. He’s won everything else, got lucky in every way possible, but I’m not going to be the icing on his cake, the most prized ornament in his show. I’m not going to be just another thing that he can brag about. No, not so long as knife, drugs, serpents, have edge, sting, or operation, not so long as I have the means of killing myself on my own terms. If I can do that, I am safe. But in order to stay safe, I have to remain in the monument. A characteristically Cleopatra switch to something just a little more petty, a little less magnificent: your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes and still conclusion, shall acquire no honour demuring upon me. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of judging me, scorning me, showing me up with meaningful looks and pursed lips. I’m not going to be there just to make her look better, to make her look the virtuous, good woman by comparison. No way.