since Abbott (§ 62): ‘Since’ when used adverbially as well as conjunctionally, frequently takes the verb in the simple past where we use the complete present, [as in the present phrase]. This is in accordance with an original meaning of the word, later (‘sith’). We should still say, ‘I never saw him after that;’ and ‘since’ has the meaning of after. [See also § 347, for examples of the simple past, ‘did’ for complete present with ‘since,’ etc.]
See . . . sicke Mrs Jameson (ii, 126): The whole secret of her absolute dominion over the facile Antony may be found in this one little speech. [I think that this assertion is a little too sweeping. In mere opposition there can hardly be ‘infinite variety.’—Ed.]
I did not send you Johnson: You must go as if you came without my order or knowledge.
if you did . . . You do not Deighton: The irregular sequence of tenses here is due to the stress which Charmian wishes to lay upon the fact that Cleopatra could not possibly love Anthony; ‘if you do love him’ would have meant ‘if you love, which is possible, though doubtful’; ‘if you did love’ means ‘if you loved, which is evidently not the case.’ 14. teachest like a foole:the way, etc.] Collier (ed. ii) claims for his punctuation (also that of his MS) a priority over all editions; the Text. Notes show that it had been adopted by Johnson. Collier, with pardonable zeal, pronounces the punctuation of his MS a decided improvement on that of the Folio, of which, he says, ‘there can be no dispute that [its] mode of pointing the passage is wrong,’— an assertion, on the part of a veteran editor, so strange, that though it stands off as gross as black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. As if there were a phrase, a word, a comma in Shakespeare about which ‘there can be no dispute’! And, moreover, Collier was unfortunate in making so extravagant a claim for his MS in this passage, of all passages, where the majority of editors in favour of the original punctuation is so very heavy. The majority has not erred, I think. Never would Cleopatra have uttered so tame, so dispassionate a sentence as that which Collier and his MS offer to us: ‘thou teachest, like a fool, the way to lose him.’ If the Folio err in punctuation, it errs on the side of moderation. Instead of a colon after ‘foole,’ I think a period would be better.—Ed.
too farre Abbott (§ 434) holds this to be a compound epithet: too-far. wish forbeare Staunton: That is, I commend forbearance. Keightley (Exp. 311): ‘Wish’ here signifies recommend, advise. I think we should read ‘wish you’ [so reads Keightley's text], as it is always followed by its object when used in this sense. John Hunter: Forbear is my wish. The verb ‘forbear’ is here in the imperative mood. Deighton: An elliptical expression for ‘I should like to see you forbear to try him so far.’ [The paraphrases just given are all of them obvious, but none of them supplies the strength, which the weak expression, ‘I wish, forbear’ lacks. It is this weakness, this childishness, almost infantile, which renders the words suspicious, so it seems to me. Nicholson's conjecture, recorded in the Cam. Ed., ‘the wish forbear’ is plausible, and is certainly stronger than the weak ‘I wish.’ It is better than his alternative conjecture, ‘your wish, forbear.’ Weakness is, however, no sufficient ground for disturbing the text.—Ed.]
sullen Into this word we may read all the moods most unlovely in woman, from waspishness to gloomy malignity. ‘O!’ exclaims Coleridge, ‘the instinctive propriety of Shakespeare in the choice of words.’—Ed.
that same eye ther's some good news This is a wilful and highly irritating misinterpretation of Anthony's expression. His looks had been, of course, downcast, as befitted words which he was ‘sorry to breathe.’ Cleopatra had instantly divined his ‘purpose,’ and conjectured the purport of his message from Rome; she resolved, therefore, that before Anthony could declare it, he should be ‘chafed’ almost beyond endurance; then, by tenderly yielding, she knew that she could bind him to her more strongly than ever. She begins, accordingly, by wilfully misinterpreting his looks.—Ed.
What sayes the married woman you may goe? Thiselton (p. 9): To punctuate this line as it is done both in the Globe and Oxford editions is to spoil the antithesis between it and the next. ‘What’ is exclamatory and expresses surprise: ‘you don't mean to tell me.’ It is to be observed that Cleopatra as yet knows nothing of the nature of the news from Rome which had aroused Anthony. She had only concluded ‘A Romane thought hath strooke him’ from a sudden subsidence of his mirth, and she infers that the news probably involves his speedy departure, and is really welcome to him as importing reconciliation with Cæsar. Fulvia and Lucius had been at war with the latter, and Cleopatra believes or pretends to believe that it has been Fulvia's wish that Anthony should keep out of the way, and that it was merely owing to this that he was able to dance attendance on herself. [Rowe's division of the line seems to me to be right; but the interrogation mark of the Folios at the end should have been retained. The line contains the two questions: ‘What says the married woman?’ and, in effect, ‘Does she give you leave to go?’ Then follows the antithesis, ‘Would she had never given you leave to come!’—Ed.] What sayes the married woman . . . leaue to come Th. Zielinski (Philologus, 1905, Bd. lxiv, Hft. i, p. 17): In this farewell scene between Anthony and Cleopatra Shakespeare had in mind Ovid's Epistle of Dido to Æneas. First of all, the situations are exactly analogous, as every one may see at once; even the Poet himself acknowledges it, where he says: ‘Dido and her Æneas shall want troops.’ etc. IV, xiv, 64. Shakespeare's Cleopatra is developed psychologically, not from the Vergilian, but from the Ovidian Dido; from the latter she derives her nervousness, although she derives from the English poet,—or rather from Plutarch, —that fatal admixture of instinctive, foxlike slyness, which Ovid's heroine lacks. Special points of resemblance the student will find for himself; the most noteworthy occurs in line 139 of Ovid's Epistola VII: Dido Æneæ:—‘Sed jubet ire deus. Vellem vetuisset adire.’ [Undoubtedly, in this one solitary line there is found a notable parallelism between Dido's words and Cleopatra's; but the antithesis between going and coming is in itself so marked that it might almost be said to be one of daily use. As to the ‘special points of resemblance which the student will find for himself,’ I can merely humbly acknowledge that I have scrutinized closely every line of Ovid's Epistle, and if there be another parallelism there, it has escaped me. Not so, however, Zielinski; one passage there is whereto he detects a second parallel in this present scene. The passage is, I suppose, for he does not specify it:—‘Forsitan et gravidam Dido, scelerate, relinquas, Parsque tui lateat corpore clausa meo.’—123, 124. This ‘clausa pars’ Zielinski finds in the ‘one word,’ which Cleopatra is at a loss to pronounce, in lines 108-113, until at last Zielinski reveals it for her in ‘Oh, my oblivion is a very Anthony.’ Thereupon, after a little gentle derision of the commentators for their obtuseness, he finds further confirmation where Cleopatra says, ‘'Tis sweating labour To bear such idleness so near the heart, As Cleopatra this.’ ‘This,’ Zielinski suggests, was accompanied by ‘a discreet significant gesture;’ δεικτικω_ς, as Aristotle has it. ‘Verily,’ he says, in conclusion, ‘a poet understands a poet better than the critics understand him; I refer to Puschkin, who has openly imitated these words of Cleopatra in a passage in his lovely “Nixe” (Rusalka): “Fürst. Leb' wohl—Mädchen. Nein, wart . . . ich muss dir etwas sagen . . . Weiss nimmer, was. Fürst. So denke nach! Mädchen. Für dich Wär ich bereit . . . Nein, das ist's nicht . . . So wart doch. Ich kann's nicht glauben, dass du mich auf ewig Verlassen willst . . . Nein, dass ist's immer nicht . . . Jetzt hab' ich's: heut war's, dass zum ersten Mal Dein Kind sich unter'm Herzen mir bewegte . . . ”’ I leave this untranslated. For those who read German, a translation is needless, and for those who do not, the loss is less than trifling. I think I ought to add that Warburton appears to have had the same idea as Zielinski. See note 114-116 infra.—Ed.]
vpon For the various uses of ‘upon,’ see Abbott, § 191.
Riotous madnesse This is her own self-reproach.
browes bent Steevens: That is, the arch of the eye-brows. So, in King John: ‘Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?’—IV, ii, 90. Schmidt (Lex. s. v. Bent. 3) interprets it as meaning the whole forehead. none our parts For other instances of the use of certain adjectives, like ‘none,’ as ‘pronouns, in a manner different from modern usage,’ see Abbott, § 12.
race of Heauen Warburton: That is, had a smack or flavour of heaven. Johnson: ‘Race’ is well explained by Warburton; the ‘race’ of wine is the taste of the soil. Malone: I am not sure the poet did not mean, ‘was of heavenly origin.’ John Hunter: ‘Race’ is a suspicious word here, for which I would venture to substitute trace. . . . It should be remarked, however, that ‘race’ had for one of its meanings smack or relish. [Between the two interpretations of Warburton and Malone subsequent editors have been pretty evenly divided. Warburton carelessly wrote ‘had a smack’ instead of ‘was a smack;’ possibly, this weakened his general acceptance, but needlessly, I think. ‘Race’ was undoubtedly applied, in Shakespeare's day, to the flavour of wine. Craigie (N. E. D. s. v. Race, sb.2 10) gives among others a quotation from Massinger: ‘A pipe of rich Canary . . . Is it of the right race.’—New Way, I, iii. This justifies Warburton's interpretation of flavour. Cleopatra says, in effect, there was no single feature, however insignificant, but was of a flavour, or, was the very flavour of heaven. The objection to Malone's interpretation seems to me to lie in the difficulty of accepting any one single feature as a ‘race’ whether of heaven or of earth.—Ed.]
in vse Johnson: The poet seems to allude to the legal distinction between ‘use’ and absolute possession.
60 ciuill Swords That is, swords drawn in civil war.
Port of Rome Dyce (Gloss.) That is, the gate of Rome.
Equality . . . powers, Breed ‘Breed’ is here plural by attraction from ‘powers.’ Abbott (§ 412) calls it ‘confusion by proximity’ and gives many examples to which more could be added. Compare, ‘the voyce of all the Gods, Make heauen drowsie,’ etc.—Love's Lab. Lost, of this edition, where the subject is discussed.—Ed.
scrupulous Schmidt (Lex.) That is, prying too nicely into the merits of either cause. Century Dictionary (s. v. 2 † where the only example is the present passage): Given to making objections; captious. Hudson: The opposing parties were rigidly sifting each other's claims.
as The s in this word, which is distinct in the almost perfect Reprint of F1, published by Booth, is reduced to a mere scratch in Staunton's Photolithograph, and, in my copy of the original, has disappeared altogether.—Ed.
present state, whose Numbers threaten Staunton (Athen. 12 April, 1873): Should we not read (placing a period after ‘present state,’） ‘War's numbers threaten’? ‘Numbers’ was a term commonly used to express an armed force; and the next line,—‘quietness grown sick of rest,’—bespeaks an antithesis between Peace and War. Compare the whole speech, where the sentences are framed short and magniloquent, to imitate the ‘Asiatic’ style, which, as Shakespeare learned from Plutarch, Antony affected. [See Appendix, Plutarch.] whose Numbers For a grammatically interesting discussion of the Shakespearian usage of relative pronouns, with a special reference to the use of that and who, which, with numerous examples, see Franz, § 206.
purge Schmidt (Lex.): That is (thus used intransitively), to be cured, to be restored to health.
more particular That is, what is more especially my own personal, private reason. This is an unusual use of the comparative. Murray (N. E. D. s. v. III, B, † 6) quotes from the first line of Heminge and Condell's Epistle Dedicatorie in the First Folio: ‘Whilst we studie to be thankful in our particular,’ etc. Schmidt (Lex.) gives ‘who loved him in a most dear particular,—Cor. V, i, 3, where it is ‘dear’ that is compared, not ‘particular.’ See IV, ix, 24, ‘in thine own particular,’ where it means, ‘in thine own special person.’—Ed.
should safe my going Abbott (§ 290): It may be said that any noun or adjective could be converted into a verb by the Elizabethan authors, generally in an active signification [as ‘safe’ in this present line, where the meaning is], ‘make my departure unsuspected by you of dangerous consequences.’
Can Fuluia dye? Steevens: That Fulvia was mortal, Cleopatra could have no reason to doubt; the meaning therefore of her question seems to be: ‘Will there ever be an end of your excuses? As often as you want to leave me, will not some Fulvia, some new pretext be found for your departure?’ She has already said that though age could not exempt her from follies, at least it freed her from a childish belief in all he says. Ritson: I am inclined to think, that Cleopatra means no more than—Is it possible that Fulvia should die? I will not believe it. Malone: Though age has not exempted me from folly, I am not so childish, as to have apprehensions from a rival that is no more. And is Fulvia dead indeed? Such, I think, is the meaning. Mrs Jameson (ii, 128): Cleopatra recovers her dignity for a moment at the news of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow. And then follows the artful mockery with which she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover whether he regrets his wife. [It is extremely difficult to decide on which one of these three words the emphasis should be laid; each can appropriately bear it. It is even more difficult than Lady Macbeth's, ‘We fail!’ Possibly, none should be emphasized, but each uttered slowly, after a pause, as though the speaker were revolving many things in her mind.—Ed.]
Garboyles Bradley (N. E. D. s. v.): (An adaptation of Old French gar- bouil, garbouille ( = Spanish garbullo), adaptation of Italian garbuglio connected with Latin bullire, to boil; the origin of the prefixed element is disputed.) Confusion, disturbance, tumult; an instance of this, a brawl, hubbub, hurly-burly. at the last, best, Steevens: This conjugal tribute to the memory of Fulvia may be illustrated by Malcolm's eulogium on the Thane of Cawdor: ‘nothing in his life Became him, like the leaving it.’—I, iv, 7. Boswell: Surely it means her death was the best thing I have known of her, as it checked her garboils. Irving Edition: Antony evidently means either, ‘in the last part of the letter is the best news,’ or ‘the best thing she ever did was her last act, that is, her leaving me.’ Rolfe: These words probably refer to the last part of the letter, or that giving the good news of Fulvia's death. Staunton: The commentators will have the word ‘best’ to relate to the ‘good end’ made by Fulvia. But it is no more than an epithet of endearment which Anthony applies to Cleopatra;—read at your leisure the trouble she awakened; and then at the last, my best one, see when and where she died. [Of course, after ‘best’ Staunton's text has the comma, of the Folio.] Staunton (Athen. 12 April, 1873): Very many years ago I protested against the error modern editors had committed in altering the punctuation of the old copy by placing a colon or semi-colon after ‘best,’ and interpreting it to mean that Fulvia's death was the most becoming act of her life; or that the intelligence of her decease was the best part of the news. I showed conclusively, as it appeared to me, that ‘best’ in this place was simply a term of endearment, like ‘sweet,’ or ‘love,’ or ‘dear;’ the construction being,—‘read in these letters all the turmoils she provoked, and, at the last, my best one, read when and where she died.’ It seemed to me incredible that there could be any question as to this, the obvious meaning, being accepted as the true one, when it was once explained. I did not then know that young ignorance and old prejudice were not the only or the worst foes a modern restoration of Shakespeare's language had to overcome. I had to learn that the most implacable opponents of all improvements in Shakespeare's text in these days were to be found among Shakespeare's editors. This use of ‘best,’ or of analogous epithets, is very common with our early poets. Compare—‘but that I love thee, best, O most best! believe it.’ —Hamlet, III, ii; ‘Gallus, Tibullus, and the best-best Cæsar.’—Jonson's Poetaster, V, i; ‘Believe me, Philomuse, i’ faith thou must, The best-best seale of wit is wit's distrust.’—Introd. to Marston's What you Will; ‘Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of best.’—George Wither's song, ‘Shall I wasting in despair; ‘—kind, forgive me: Make me not sick in health.’—The Revenger's Tragedy; ‘—But, last, good, thy humour.’—Induct. to Marston's Antonio and Mellida, where the turn of expression is precisely the same as—‘at the last, best, see when,’ etc. [Staunton overlooked Florizel's enamoured words ‘When you do speak, sweet, I'ld have you do it ever’? Had we only dutifully followed the Folio, and disregarded Capell's unfortunate colon, there would never have been, I think, any doubt as to the comprehension of Anthony's epithet ‘best,’ which harmonizes with his eagerness to propitiate her whom he had already called his ‘Queen.’—Ed.]
Sacred Violles Johnson: Alluding to the lachrymatory vials, or bottles of tears, which the Romans sometimes put into the urn of a friend. Halliwell: These vials are now known to be unguent bottles.
I see, . . . shall be This rhyme grates. One cannot but admire Rowe's courage in evading it.
th'aduice. By Abbott (§ 508) in order to complete the metre, suggests, what is most true, that ‘a pause, perhaps, may be expected before an oath,’ but immediately ruinates the good suggestion by adding: ‘but “vice” or “by” may be prolonged.’ It were better far, brazenly to insert, like Steevens, a superfluous Now, or even a whole Dictionary, than weakly to quaver out ‘vice’ or ‘By.’—Ed.
affects Walker (Crit. ii, 128) in his Article to show that ‘s is not infrequently substituted for st in the second person singular of the verb’ has the following: ‘Quære, therefore, in cases where st would produce extreme harshness, and where at the same time the old copies have s, whether we ought not to write the latter. (In the north of England, and in Scotland (see, for example, Burns passim), s for st in the second person seems to be the rule.)’ [The propriety of Walker's suggestion can hardly be questioned, I think. There are instances where it is almost impossible to pronounce the full form in st and at the same time impart any smoothness whatever to the verse. In the well-known line where Hamlet asks the Ghost why ‘thou dead corse again in complete steel Revisitest thus the glimpses of the moon,’ can cacophony further go? Thus to pronounce these two words is to pay too dear a price for grammar. Again in Lear, where the old demented king says ‘thou hotly lustest to use.’ In both cases we are forced to use the forms in the Folio and say ‘Revisits thus’ and ‘lusts to.’ Thus, too, in the present line, an ear that would shrink under ‘affects’ for affectest is too grammatical to be of use to anybody, much less to its owner. When Heine said that to his ears the English language sounded like the harsh notes of sea-mews, I think he must have had in memory some of the second person singulars of verbs ending in t.—Ed.]
and well, So Anthony loues Capell (p. 29): Meaning—such is Antony's love; fluctuating and subject to sudden turns, like my health. [Of recent editors, Staunton and Hudson are the only ones who adopt this interpretation.] Malone: [At one time] I thought this to be—‘My fears quickly render me ill; and I am as quickly well again, when I am convinced that Antony has an affection for me.’ ‘So’ for so that. If this be the true sense of the passage, it ought to be regulated thus:—‘I am quickly ill,—and well again, so Antony loves.’ [The interpretation which Malone rejected is that which has been generally adopted. Knight accepts it; Collier also, adding: ‘First Cleopatra tells Charmian to cut her lace, then “to let it be,” the necessity being at an end, in consequence, perhaps, of receiving some indication of love from Antony.’ Irving's Ed., Deighton, and Rolfe all adopt Malone's discarded interpretation. In the use of the indicative ‘loves,’ instead of the subjunctive, Abbott (§ 363) discerns such complete assurance on Cleopatra's part, that he is inclined to consider ‘So’ as ‘almost’ equivalent to since. Had we only closed our eyes to Warburton's colon, Steevens's semi-colon, and Johnson's full stop, and opened them on the comma of the Folio, no doubts would have ever beclouded our minds. To me, the simple meaning is that whether she is ill or well depends entirely on Anthony's love.—Ed.]
euidence Collier (ed. ii): There can be no hesitation in adopting here the excellent emendation of the MS, viz.: credence for ‘evidence’; it suits both measure and meaning admirably; for the sake of the metre ‘evidence’ [must be pronounced] ev'dence. Cleopatra was not to give evidence, but belief, to the affection of Antony. Singer (Sh. Vind. 289): The substitution of credence would be specious, but that the occurrence of ‘trial,’ in the next line, shows that the old text is right. Cleopatra had just cast a doubt on Antony's love; he bids her give ‘true evidence’ in favour of it, not bear false witness against it, as she had done. Dyce (Strict. 201) quotes with approval this note of Singer, and adds: Compare ‘Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloster Than from true evidence,’ etc.—2 Hen. VI: III, ii. ‘Give true evidence’ is ‘Bear true witness;’ but what is ‘Give true credence’? Staunton: Mr Collier's annotator . . . would poorly read credence, which, like many of his suggestions, is very specious and quite wrong. The meaning of Antony is this,—‘Forbear these taunts, and demonstrate to the world your confidence in my love by submitting it freely to the trial of absence.’ to his Walker (Vers. 77) recommends that these two words should be written, to's. Could Walker have vainly imagined that by writing these words thus the rhythmical flow of the line would be promoted? If to's represents one sound, why should it not be written honestly tos? Does not the apostrophe by indicating an omission equally indicate a pause long enough to show that to's is not tos? And if there is to be a pause, however brief, it is a pause long enough to give a breathing and say to his. No flow of rhythm can compensate, to my ear at least, for such slipshod pronunciation of English as to's.—Ed.
So Fuluia told me It is not, of course, to be supposed that Fulvia ever told Cleopatra this, or anything else. It was Cleopatra's cutting and cruel way of telling Anthony at how high a rate his treatment of Fulvia had led her to prize his love. Fulvia had experienced Anthony's ‘honourable trial;’ and Fulvia's experience proclaimed Cleopatra's; tears shed for Fulvia should be Cleopatra's ‘true evidence to his love.’—Ed.
to Egypt Johnson: To me, the Queen of Egypt.
let it Abbott (§ 472): So strong was the dislike to pronouncing two dental syllables together, that ‘it’ seems nearly or quite lost after ‘let’ [in the present line. To the same effect Walker, Vers. 77.]
Still he mends This speaking of Anthony in the third person implies the calm critical eye of a disinterested spectator, pronouncing on the excellence of the performance with judicial coolness,—unspeakably irritating when the victim's blood is seething.—Ed.
Looke prythee Charmian This appeal to Charmian is virtually turning Anthony into a public exhibition; and proves the limit of his endurance.—Ed.
Herculean Roman Steevens: Anthony traced his descent from Anton, a son of Hercules. [See Appendix, Plutarch.]
chafe Staunton: Can any one who considers the epithet ‘Herculean,’ which Cleopatra applies to Antony, and reads the following extract from Shakespeare's authority, hesitate for an instant to pronounce ‘chafe’ a silly blunder of the transcriber or compositor for chief, meaning Hercules, the head or principal of the house of the Antonii? [Here follows the passage from Plutarch, referred to in the preceding note. Twenty years later, Staunton (Athen. 12 April, 1873) upheld his emendation, and closed his remarks, in substance the same as in his note just given, with the assertion that Shakespeare ‘puts into the mouth of Cleopatra the stinging taunt, —“How this Herculean Roman does become the carriage of his chief.” A sarcasm which is rendered absolutely pointless by the fatuous reading of the old text.’] Hudson: This is obscure. But Cleopatra here assumes that Anthony is but playing a part; that his passion is put on for effect. So, if the text be right, the meaning, I think, must be, ‘look how well he carries out the resemblance or make-believe of being chafed at my words.’ Deighton: That is, see what full justice he does to the part he has to play of being in a rage; how well he carries out his assumed role. Mrs Jameson (ii, 130): This is, indeed, most ‘excellent dissembling;’ but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that return of tenderness which secures the power she has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell. [Although these words are a part of the irritating appeal to Charmian, yet they give in one particular word the first hint that Cleopatra is relenting and that her mood is changing. In her very next speech she is utterly subdued and is the gentle, caressing, heartbroken queen, whose very soul is lost and forgotten in Anthony. It would be unnatural to represent this change as taking place as swift as the lightning in the collied night, as it would be were it preceded by a ‘stinging taunt’ and ‘sarcasm.’ The indication of a change, which though swift, is still gradual, lies in the word ‘chafe,’ —it is Cleopatra's confession that she has been merely teasing; when she speaks in earnest she lacks words to tell her love, but hitherto it has been mere fun—‘Look, Charmian,’ she says, in effect, ‘how becoming it is to this Herculean Roman to have to bear a little teasing;’ or, in modern slang (perilously near ‘chafe’) ‘to bear a little chaff.’ Of course, it is not to be supposed that, however bewitching the smile which accompanies these words, Anthony is at once appeased. No man likes to be told that he has been teased, although teasing is better than venom. So Anthony is dignified and calls Cleopatra ‘lady’ and is almost ludicrously sarcastic in his next speech. But,—he is limed. The ‘infinite variety’ has triumphed.—Ed.]
Oh, my Obliuion . . . forgotten Hanmer: ‘All forgotten’ is an old way of speaking for, apt to forget everything. Capell (i, 29): Intimating by this expression,—that Antony's oblivion was something more than even oblivion itself; the hemistich that follows may be explain'd in these words;—and the memory I once had is all a blot. Johnson: It was her memory, not her oblivion, that like Antony was deserting her. I think a slight change will restore the passage. The Queen, having something to say, which she is not able, or would seem not able to recollect, cries out, ‘O my oblivion!—'Tis a very Antony.’ The thought of which I was in quest is a very Antony, is treacherous and fugitive, and has irrevocably left me. ‘And I am all forgotten.’ If this reading stand, I think the explanation of Hanmer must be received. But I will venture another change, by reading, ‘And I am all forgone.’ I am all deserted and undone. Steevens: Cleopatra has something to say, which seems to be suppressed by sorrow; and after many attempts to produce her meaning, she cries out: ‘O, this oblivious memory of mine is as false and treacherous to me as Antony is, and I forget everything.’ Oblivion, I believe, is boldly used for a memory apt to be deceitful. . . . Mr Edwards has proposed in his MS notes: ‘Oh me! oblivion is a very Antony,’ etc. Henley: Perhaps nothing is more necessary here than a change of punctuation; O my! being still an exclamation frequently used in the west of England. M. Mason: The sense of the passage appears to me to be this: ‘O, my oblivion! as if it were another Antony, possesses me so entirely, that I quite forget myself.’ [Steevens's paraphrase of ‘my oblivion is a very Antony’ is possibly just; but may it not be that Cleopatra means that she is so utterly lost, heart and soul and mind and strength, in Anthony, that even her forgetfulness is become a part of him, and that her own individual self is all forgotten? See V, ii, 106.—Ed.]
But that . . . it selfe Warburton: That is, But that your charms hold me, who am the greatest fool on earth, in chains, I should have adjudged you to be the greatest. That this is the sense is shown by her answer: ‘'Tis sweating labour, To bear such idleness so near the heart, As Cleopatra this—.’ Heath (p. 450): I apprehend the sense is this; Ant. If I were not sufficiently acquainted with you to know, that you have so perfect a command of your own disposition, as to be able to put on or dismiss idleness, or childish frowardness, at pleasure, I should take you, from your present behaviour, for childishness itself. Cleo. As much idleness as you are pleased to call my present disposition, it is sweating labour to bear such idleness so near the heart, as I do this which you reproach me with. Capell (i, 29): Did I not know, says Antony, what a mistress you are in the arts of dissembling, and of counterfeiting any idle humour you please, I should take the wantonness of your present behaviour for real wantonness, and accuse you of little feeling; and with this interpretation, the answer of Cleopatra quadrates perfectly; for it amounts to an avowal—that she had indeed been acting a part, and that with the greatest constraint, and most painfully to herself; her motive, as she would have it thought,—to keep up Antony's spirits, and her own, in such a trying juncture as this of their parting. Steevens: Warburton's explanation is a very coarse one. The sense may be:—But that your queenship chooses idleness for the subject of your conversation, I should take you for idleness itself. Or an antithesis may be designed between royalty and subject. But that I know you to be a queen, and that your royalty holds idleness in subjection to you, exalting you far above its influence, I should suppose you to be the very genius of idleness itself. Malone: But perhaps your subject rather means, whom being in subjection to you, you can command at pleasure, ‘to do your bidding,’ to assume the airs of coquetry, etc. Were not this coquet one of your attendants, I should suppose you yourself were this capricious being. Hudson: ‘Idleness’ here means idle or sportive and unmeaning talk. And there is an antithesis between ‘royalty’ and ‘subject.’ So the sense is, ‘But that you are queen over your passion for idle discourse, and can command it as your subject, assuming it and laying it aside when you choose, I should think you the very genius of idleness itself.’ Rolfe: But that your sovereignty can make frivolousness subservient to your purpose, I should take you for frivolousness itself.
my becommings The things which become me, befit me.
Lawrell victory Both Collier and Dyce think that ‘Lawrell'd’ of F2 is to be preferred. The former suggests that a d has dropt out at the press; and the latter ‘suspects that [thus] Shakespeare wrote here.’ But they overlooked certain examples which Abbott (§ 430) furnishes:—‘The honey of his music vows’— Hamlet III, i, 164; ‘The venom clamours of a jealous woman.’—Com. of Err. V, i, 69; ‘Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud.’—R. of L. 850. ‘The Carthage queen.’—Mid. N. D. I, i, 173. Malone was assuredly correct when he said that this use of a noun for a past participle or an adjective ‘was the language of Shakespeare's time.’
That thou . . . remaine with thee Steevens: Compare ‘She went, they staid; or rightly for to say, She staid in them, they went in thought with hyr.’ —Sidney, Arcadia, lib. i, [p. 87, ed. 1598.] Thus also in Plautus, Mercator: ‘Si domi sum, foris est animus: sin foris sum, animus domi 'st.’ [III, iv, 2.]
William Shakespeare. Horace Howard Furness. A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare: The Tragedie of Anthonie, and Cleopatra. Philadelphia and London. J. B. Lippincott Company. 1907.
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