CHARMIAN. ’Twas merry when You wagered on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up. CLEOPATRA. That time?—O times!— I laughed him out of patience; and that night I laughed him into patience, and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan. Enter Messenger. O! from Italy! Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren. MESSENGER. Madam, madam— CLEOPATRA. Antony’s dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill’st thy mistress. But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss, a hand that kings Have lipped, and trembled kissing. MESSENGER. First, madam, he’s well. CLEOPATRA. Why, there’s more gold. But sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat. MESSENGER. Good madam, hear me. CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will. But there’s no goodness in thy face if Antony Be free and healthful. So tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings! If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crowned with snakes, Not like a formal man. MESSENGER. Will’t please you hear me? CLEOPATRA. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st. Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I’ll set thee in a shower of gold and hail Rich pearls upon thee. MESSENGER. Madam, he’s well. CLEOPATRA. Well said. MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Th’ art an honest man. MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. CLEOPATRA. Make thee a fortune from me. MESSENGER. But yet, madam— CLEOPATRA. I do not like “But yet”, it does allay The good precedence. Fie upon “But yet”! “But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st, free. MESSENGER. Free, madam? No. I made no such report. He’s bound unto Octavia. CLEOPATRA. For what good turn? MESSENGER. For the best turn i’ th’ bed. CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian. MESSENGER. Madam, he’s married to Octavia. CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee! [_Strikes him down._] MESSENGER. Good madam, patience. CLEOPATRA. What say you? [_Strikes him again._] Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head! [_She hales him up and down._] Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle. MESSENGER. Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match. CLEOPATRA. Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg. MESSENGER. He’s married, madam.