They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra
CLEOPATRA And welcome, welcome! Die when thou hast lived,
Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power,
Thus would I wear them out.
[She kisses him]
ALL OTHERS A heavy sight.
ANTONY I am dying, Egypt, dying.
Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
CLEOPATRA No, let me speak, and let me rail so high
That the false hussy Fortune break her wheel,
Provoked by my offence.
ANTONY One word, sweet queen.
Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!
CLEOPATRA They do not go together.
ANTONY Gentle, hear me.
None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.
CLEOPATRA My resolution and my hands I’ll trust,
None about Caesar. (4.16.39-52)
Finally, he’s made it, Antony brought to his queen, lifted up above the stage to die. And welcome, welcome! Die when thou hast lived, quicken with kissing. Cleopatra promises Antony a kind of resuscitation: he will return to life—in order to die—by kissing her. And he cannot die until he’s kissed her one last time—and had my lips that power, she says, if I could really give you life by kissing you, that’s how I’d wear them out. With kiss after kiss after kiss… A heavy sight, the guards respond: this is heart-breaking. (Heavy, still, lowering, melancholy, even though Antony’s now elevated and united with Cleopatra.) I am dying, Egypt, dying, says Antony again (it might be a printing error, the repetition from a few lines earlier). Give me some wine and let me speak a little; he’s desperate to be able to say just a few words to Cleopatra, and wine will moisten his dry mouth and throat, restore his strength a little, briefly. Cleopatra, however, wants to do the talking. No, let me speak—it can get a laugh, and it’s entirely typical of her—and let me rail so high, let me curse with such passion, lament and complain with such force and fury, that the false hussy Fortune break her wheel, provoked by my offence. Oh she’s a treacherous bitch, I’ll tell her, I’ll show her. She’ll snap that stupid wheel of hers—and, even at that last minute, change the course of fate—not let you die after all. One word, sweet queen—Antony’s courteous, resigned, but also urgent. Just one. He knows that his life is slipping away, and his first impulse, it seems, is to advise Cleopatra how to save herself. Unlike him, she should compromise: of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. If at all possible, she should attempt to find a way of living with her dignity intact; she should negotiate with Caesar, appeal to him. O! pain and distress briefly intrude. They do not go together, Cleopatra protests, that is, she will not put her safety above her honour, they’re wholly incompatible. Like him, she will die rather than abase herself before Caesar. But Antony persists: gentle, hear me. No, love, listen. This is important. None about Caesar trust but Proculeius. He’s OK, he’ll tell you straight, he’ll treat you fairly. No one else who’s part of Caesar’s camp can be relied on. (And, notably, not Caesar himself either.) Cleopatra’s having none of it, though: my resolution and my hands I’ll trust, none about Caesar. I’ve got more faith in my own strength, and my own honourable purpose in taking my own life on my own terms, than ever I will have in Caesar or his associates. She’s adamant. Like Antony, Cleopatra will die rather than abase herself before Caesar.