Antony and Cleopatra, Act 3, Scene 4

Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that— That were excusable, that and thousands more Of semblable import—but he hath waged New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it To public ear; Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly He 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 only that — that would be forgivable, that and a thousand more things of the same kind — but he has started new wars against Pompey; he made his will and read it out in public; he spoke slightingly of me; when he couldn't avoid giving me honourable titles, he delivered them coldly and feebly; he granted me the narrowest measure of praise; when the best opening was handed to him, he didn't take it, or spoke only with his teeth.

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 presently When 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, or if you must believe it, don't take it all so hard. No more unhappy woman ever stood between two sides, if this split happens, praying for both of them. The good gods will soon laugh at me when, having prayed, "Oh, bless my lord and husband!" I undo that prayer by crying out just as loudly, "Oh, bless my brother!" Let my husband win — let my brother win: each prayer wrecks the other; there is no middle ground at all between these two extremes.

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

Gentle Octavia, let your deepest love go where it can best keep that love alive. If I lose my honour, I lose myself; it would be better for me not to be yours at all than to be yours stripped of my branches. But, as you asked, you yourself shall act as go-between for us. In the meantime, lady, I'll build up the preparations for a war that will disgrace your brother. Go as fast as you can, and so your wishes are granted.

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

Thanks to my lord. May the Jove of power make me — weak as I am, so very weak — the one who reconciles you! War between you two would be as if the world split apart, and dead men had to be used to weld the crack shut.

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

When you see clearly where this begins, turn your anger in that direction, because our faults can never be so evenly matched that your love can be shared out evenly between them. Get ready for your journey; choose your own attendants, and spend whatever your heart wishes.