What’s your pleasure, sir?
What's your pleasure, sir?
I must with haste from hence.
Why then we kill all our women. We see
how mortal an unkindness is to them. If they suffer
our departure, death's the word.
I must be gone.
Under a compelling occasion, let women
die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing,
though between them and a great cause, they
should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching
but the least noise of this, dies instantly. I have seen
her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do
think there is mettle in death which commits some
loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in
She is cunning past man's thought.
Alack, sir, no, her passions are made of
nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot
call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are
greater storms and tempests than almanacs can
report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she
makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.
Would I had never seen her!
O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful
piece of work, which not to have been blest
withal would have discredited your travel.
Fulvia is dead.
Fulvia is dead.
Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice.
When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a
man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the
Earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are
worn out, there are members to make new. If there
were no more women but Fulvia, then had you
indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief
is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings
forth a new petticoat, and indeed the tears live in an
onion that should water this sorrow.
The business she hath broachèd in the state
Cannot endure my absence.
And the business you have broached here
cannot be without you, especially that of Cleopatra's,
which wholly depends on your abode.
No more light answers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the Queen
And get her leave to part. For not alone
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home. 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.
I shall do ‘t.