Antony and Cleopatra

Dolabella, go see Antony. Tell him to surrender. His position is hopeless. This delay makes him look ridiculous.

Right away, Caesar.

What are you doing with a sword? Who do you think you are coming in here armed?

My name is Decretus. I served Mark Antony, who was the commander most worthy of my services. While he was alive, I lived only to serve him and oppose his enemies. If you accept my service, I’ll serve you the same way. If not, you can kill me.

What are you saying?

Caesar, I’m telling you that Antony is dead.

When such a great man dies there should be a thunderclap. The fractured world, in its confusion, should send lions into the city streets and humans into the wilderness to live in lions’ dens. This isn’t the death of one man. It’s the death of half the world.

He’s dead, Caesar. Not by public execution or an assassin’s knife. He killed himself with the same hand that performed such brave acts. With the courage his heart lent his hand, his hand in turn split his heart. This is his sword. I pulled it from his wound. Look—his noble blood is still on it.

Listen, sad friends, though the gods may rebuke me, this news would make kings cry.

It’s strange that human nature makes us grieve for the very thing we’ve been trying to achieve.

His faults were equally matched by his virtues.

There was never a ruler as excellent as he. But gods, you give us faults so we’ll be human. Caesar is upset.

It’s impossible for him not to see himself in Antony.

Oh, Antony. I drove you to this. But we have to get rid of a disease if it threatens our body. Either I had to ruin you, or you would have ruined me. There wasn’t enough room in the world for both of us. Even so, let me mourn, with tears that heal like a bloodletting, that you—my brother, my greatest competitor, my partner in rule, my friend and companion on the battlefield, the very arm of my body, and the heart in which mine own heart’s thoughts lived—that our fates could not be reconciled, which caused us to divide ourselves from one another. Let me tell you, friends—

I’ll tell you at a better time. This man looks like his business is urgent. Let’s hear what he has to say. (to EGYPTIAN) Who are you?

A poor Egyptian, but my mistress, the Queen, sent me to find out what your intentions are concerning her. She’s locked up in her tomb and wants to prepare herself for her fate.

Tell her to put her mind at rest. She’ll find out soon enough by one of our messengers how respectfully and kindly we plan to treat her. I cannot be taught how to be cruel.

May the gods bless you.

Come here, Proculeius. Tell her we mean her no disrespect. Give her whatever assurances you feel she needs to keep her from killing herself. I need her alive, so that I can exhibit her in my triumphal procession and gain eternal fame. Go, and hurry back to bring us her reply and news of her state of mind.

I will, Caesar.

Gallus, you go with him.

Where’s Dolabella? He’s supposed to support Proculeius.

Dolabella!

Never mind. I remember he’s already occupied. He’ll be done in time. Come with me. In my tent I’ll show you how unwillingly I was drawn into this war. You’ll see how calm and gentle my letters to Antony always were. Come and see the proof.