DOLABELLA                           Cleopatra—

CLEOPATRA   Think you there was, or might be, such a man

As this I dreamt of?

DOLABELLA                           Gentle madam, no.

CLEOPATRA   You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.

But if there be, or ever were one such,

It’s past the size of dreaming. Nature wants stuff

To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t’imagine

An Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy,

Condemning shadows quite.           (5.2.91-9)

Cleopatra—says Dolabella, no titles or formalities, just her name, human, gentle. Listen to me. Listen to yourself. (Of course, he can shout at her, but that seems out of keeping with the tone of the scene.) It’s an attempt at a kind intervention: enough. She knows what he’s thinking, anticipates his objections in a way: think you there was, or might be, such a man as this I dreamt of? Was there ever—and the past tense can catch in her throat—or could there ever be a man like this, this man of my dreams? Even as she says it, a sense of fading, the impossible vision dissolving like mist. Dolabella says what he must, kindly: gentle madam, no. You know it’s impossible. You know Antony wasn’t really like that. She makes a final defiant attempt: you lie, up to the hearing of the gods. That’s an outrageous, gargantuan lie! There was! He was! He was glorious! And then a delicate, loving, melancholy half-capitulation, which is also partly a realisation: but if there be, or ever were one such—if such a man existed, or could have existed (and the only two-syllable word in that line, ever, can catch in the throat again—for ever, for all time—it’s past the size of dreaming. It’s an impossible dream: yes, no dream could ever measure up to the reality of Antony—he was greater than any dream. He was. He was. It still sounds like defiance, but it’s mingled with a realisation of its own delusion too. Nature wants stuff to vie strange forms with fancy, she says: nature lacks the material from which such marvels can be made, the wonders that can compete with the splendours of the imagination—that’s the way it usually works, our dreams are always better than the reality. But—but—to imagine an Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy, a real man, my man, better than any dream—nature’s masterpiece, triumphing over the imagination, and condemning shadows quite, sweeping away daydreams, pale imitations, fantasies. My Antony was real, and glorious. He was. And please don’t tell me he wasn’t, this is all I’ve got now. (And he was mine.)

This speech is shot silk, gossamer, clutching at a dream, a memory, that dissolves even as it’s grasped.