Antony and Cleopatra, Act 3, Scene 4

Antony

Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that—That were excusable, that and thousands moreOf semblable import—but he hath wagedNew wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read itTo public ear;Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could notBut pay me terms of honour, cold and sicklyHe vented them; most narrow measure lent me;When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t,Or did it from his teeth.

No, no, Octavia, it isn't just that. That could be forgiven, along with a thousand other things like it. But he has started new wars against Pompey, made his will and read it in public, and spoken dismissively of me. When he had no choice but to honor me, his words were cold and weak. He gave me as little credit as possible. When he had the best opportunity to praise me, he either ignored it or offered empty words.

Octavia

O, my good lord,Believe not all, or if you must believe,Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,If this division chance, ne’er stood between,Praying for both parts.The good gods will mock me presentlyWhen I shall pray “O, bless my lord and husband!”Undo that prayer by crying out as loud“O, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother,Prays and destroys the prayer; no midway’Twixt these extremes at all.

Oh, my good lord, don't believe everything you hear, or if you must believe it, don't take it all to heart. If this split happens, no woman standing between two sides and praying for both has ever been more miserable. The good gods will soon laugh at me when I pray, “Oh, bless my lord and husband!” and then undo that prayer by crying just as loudly, “Oh, bless my brother!” Praying for my husband to win and my brother to win destroys the very prayer I make. There is no middle ground between these extremes.

Antony

Gentle Octavia,Let your best love draw to that point which seeksBest to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,I lose myself; better I were not yoursThan yours so branchless. But, as you requested,Yourself shall go between’s. The meantime, lady,I’ll raise the preparation of a warShall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste,So your desires are yours.

Gentle Octavia, give your deepest love to the one who tries hardest to preserve it. If I lose my honor, I lose myself. Better that I were not yours than yours with everything stripped away. But as you requested, you will go between us. Meanwhile, my lady, I'll prepare for a war that will disgrace your brother. Leave as soon as you can, if that is truly what you want.

Octavia

Thanks to my lord.The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak,Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would beAs if the world should cleave, and that slain menShould solder up the rift.

Thank you, my lord. May mighty Jove make me, weak as I am, so very weak, the one who reconciles you! A war between you two would be like the world splitting apart, with dead men filling the crack.

Antony

When it appears to you where this begins,Turn your displeasure that way, for our faultsCan never be so equal that your loveCan equally move with them. Provide your going;Choose your own company, and command what costYour heart has mind to.

When you see who started this, direct your anger at him. Our faults can never be so equal that your love can fall equally on both sides. Prepare to leave. Choose whoever you want to accompany you, and spend as much as you please.