ANTONY                                 Sextus Pompeius

Hath given the dare to Caesar and commands

The empire of the sea. Our slippery people,

Whose love is never linked to the deserver

Till his deserts are past, begin to throw

Pompey the Great and all his dignities

Upon his son, who—high in name and power,

Higher than both in blood and life—stands up

For the main soldier; whose quality, going on,

The sides o’th’ world may danger. Much is breeding

Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life,

And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure,

To such whose place is under us, requires

Our quick remove from hence.

ENOBARBUS              I shall do’t.

[Exeunt]          (1.2.159-172)

 

Antony is fully back in Romen general mode, demonstrating that he’s far more on top of the details of policy and politicking than might have been imagined only a few moments ago, let alone in the previous scene. He knows that Sextus Pompeius, one of the empire’s rising stars, jostling for position, is challenging Caesar, has given him the dare; he already commands the empire of the sea. He’s creating a naval power base. And the slippery Roman people, fickle and inconstant (and who knows that better than Antony, having swayed them so deliberately by his speeches in the aftermath of Caesar’s death?) whose love is never linked to the deserver till his deserts are past, who never give their support to the person who really merits it at the time, although they’re quick enough to do so when the moment has passed, or when he’s dead—they now begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities upon his son. Pompey the Great was the popular and successful general, a close ally of Julius Caesar, who eventually rebelled against him, was defeated and assassinated. And his son Sextus Pompeius is a chip off the old block, stands up for the main soldier, an even better warrior than his father, full of energy and courage, and becoming every bit as popular; he’s being hailed as the Great already. If he carries on the way he’s going, continues to develop in this direction, gathering more and more support to him, then the limits of the world, its sides, and its stability, will be in danger. He’s a real threat.

Much is breeding which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life, and not a serpent’s poison. Wildly obscure, this—thank you editors—but it’s a nice insight into Antony’s credulous nature, perhaps, the belief that if you put the hair from the tail of a horse in water, it would turn into a snake. Antony imagines a moment where that process of metamorphosis is underway, but not yet complete, where the danger could yet be averted. And so it’s time to make a move, to give orders which must be acted on with urgency and unquestioned: say our pleasure, to such whose place is under us, requires our quick remove from hence. Pass it on to all whom I command, my officers and men. It’s time for us to depart, at speed. Enobarbus has, perhaps, finally got the message, and he’s fallen into line (into the verse line, at least): I shall do’t.

And that’s the end of this extraordinary scene, which has begun with giggling fortune-telling and Egyptian frolics, and ended with the promise of an imminent division of the lovers and Antony’s return, both literally and metaphorically, to Rome.