CLEOPATRA  Sir, I will eat no meat. I’ll not drink, sir.

If idle talk will once be necessary,

I’ll not sleep, neither. This mortal house I’ll ruin,

Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I

Will not wait pinioned at your master’s court,

Nor once be chastised with the sober eye

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up

And show me to the shouting varletry

Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt

Be gentle grave unto me; rather on Nilus’ mud

Lay me stark naked, and let the waterflies

Blow me into abhorring; rather make

My country’s high pyramids my gibbet,

And hang me up in chains.   (5.2.48-61)

Cleopatra lets rip. She first picks up on the straightforward association between Proculeius’s exhortation to temperance and moderation in diet: sir—terribly polite, and also as if explaining to a simpleton, and also with biting sarcasm—I will eat no meat. I won’t eat a thing. And neither will I drink, sir. And if idle talk will once be necessary, if I have to keep chatting on, making small talk, then I won’t sleep, either. (It’s a confusing line, editors quibble: the tone is the point, mainly; Cleopatra’s had enough.) She will not sleep, not eat, not drink. This mortal house, her own body, I’ll ruin, she says; I will destroy myself, do Caesar what he can. And there’s nothing he can do to stop me, not really. Bring it on. Know, sir—the sarcasm intensifies—that I will not wait pinioned at your master’s court. I’m not going to wait patiently in chains, a prisoner, powerless, awaiting my death at a time of Caesar’s choosing. (Pinioned can be spat out, perhaps with a grotesque accompanying gesture, arms bound, helpless.) And neither am I going to sit around, putting up even once with being chastised with the sober eye of dull Octavia, stupid, boring cow, tutting at me, shaking her head, or being terribly well bred and not saying a word, just looking sad and disapproving; I’d rather she slapped me, showed some real emotion. (Antony!) Or—shall they hoist me up and show me to the shouting varletry of censuring Rome? Do I wait for that, to be put on display, on a scaffold, a cart, mocked and monstered by the howling Roman mob? Do you really think I’d put up with any of that? Seriously? Rather a ditch in Egypt be gentle grave unto me. I’d rather die a lowly, lovely death in my own land, kinder to me than foreign soil could ever be—throw me there to die like a dog. Or cast me out on the mud of the Nile, my native element, stark naked, and let the waterflies blow me into abhorring, rotten and disgusting, flyblown and foul. But still a better death than in Rome. Or hang me up in chains, make my country’s high pyramids my gibbet, a sordid, agonising death. But let me die in my own land, in Egypt. Not Rome.