[Enter Iras with a robe, crown, and other regalia]

CLEOPATRA  Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have

Immortal longings in me. Now no more

The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip.

Yare, yare, good Iras, quick—methinks I hear

Antony call. I see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act. I hear him mock

The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men

To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come.

Now to that name my courage prove my title.       (5.2.269-277)

Having declared that she is constant, unchangeable, Cleopatra continues to demonstrate her quite extraordinary mobility and lability as a character, as she becomes once more the imperious queen, the ardent lover. Yet the directness and simplicity is striking: give me my robe. Put on my crown. Dress me, girls, as you have so many times before. Take care of me, this one last time. Make me ready; help me to look my best and make me fit for my last actions in this world, and my first in the next. Because I have immortal longings in me: I long less to die than to be immortal, to live on in a life other than this—but the immortal longings can also suggest age-old desires, a deep, deep desire for Antony, now inextricably bound up with Cleopatra’s desire for death. This is also a leave-taking, of her beloved country: now no more the juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip. Partly this allows the action to be extended, as Charmian and Iras work quickly to dress Cleopatra in whatever a production has supplied; she might even drink as they work. But also juice, grape, moist, lip ramp up the sensuality of this moment; they focus attention on Cleopatra’s mouth and on her body more generally.

She’s impatient—of course she is—or perhaps Iras is being slow or clumsy—yare, yare, good Iras, quick—as quick as you can, nimble fingers. Because methinks I hear Antony call; that’s what she’s focusing on, love, longing, and reunion. He wants me with him! And I don’t just hear his voice calling to me—I can see him too, see him rouse himself to praise my noble act. He’ll be so proud of me, of what I’m doing! A characteristic touch of malice: I can also hear him mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath. Ha! Caesar thinks he’s triumphed, that he’s got the better of us both, and that the gods are on his side, but in reality he’ll face their anger. Antony’s amused by that too; I can picture that. (A bit complicated, that. Again, perhaps allowing just a little more time for the preparations.) Then a heartbreak moment: husband, I come! I’ll be with you in just a moment, reunited—and we’ll be married, for all time, in every sense that matters. You are my husband; that’s how I think of you now, and for always. It’s almost the equivalent of Romeo’s ‘My love, my wife’ to Juliet’s body (as he thinks)—an assertion of contingent, interdependent identity; here it’s also getting one over Octavia (who even is she anymore?) and also a touching recalibration, that Cleopatra isn’t, after all, squarely in the marriage-is-just-a-piece-of-paper camp. This is the two of them, husband and wife. Now to that name—of husband, of wife—my courage prove my title. I’ve got to demonstrate my absolute right to address you as my husband, by my bravery in what I’m about to do, both the choice to do it and the acting of it.