Few things in Shakespeare (and we know of nothing in any other
author like them) have more of that local truth of imagination and
character than the passage in which Cleopatra is represented
conjecturing what were the employments of Antony in his absence.
'He's speaking now, or murmuring--WHERE'S MY SERPENT OF OLD NILE?'
Or again, when she says to Antony, after the defeat at Actium, and
his summoning up resolution to risk another fight--'It is my
birthday; I had thought to have held it poor; but since my lord is
Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.' Perhaps the finest burst of all
is Antony's rage after his final defeat when he comes in, and
surprises the messenger of Caesar kissing her hand:
To let a fellow that will take rewards,
And say, God quit you, be familiar with
My play-fellow, your hand; this kingly seal,
And plighter of high hearts.
It is no wonder that he orders him to be whipped; but his low
condition is not the true reason: there is another feeling which
lies deeper, though Antony's pride would not let him show it, except
by his rage; he suspects the fellow to be Caesar's proxy.
Cleopatra's whole character is the triumph of the voluptuous, of the
love of pleasure and the power of giving it, over every other
consideration. Octavia is a dull foil to her, and Fulvia a shrew and
shrill-tongued.
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