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 could be forgiven, that and a thousand other 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 had no choice but to speak of me in honourable terms, he delivered them coldly and feebly; he gave me the smallest possible credit; when the best opening was offered him, he didn't take it, or did it insincerely.

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 resent it all. If this split happens, no more unhappy woman ever stood in the middle, praying for both sides. The good gods will laugh at me at once when I pray, "Oh, bless my lord and husband!" and then cancel that prayer by crying out just as loudly, "Oh, bless my brother!" Husband, win — brother, win: each prayer destroys the other; there's no middle path at all between these 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 settle on whichever side works hardest to preserve it. 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 everything. But, as you asked, you yourself shall act as go-between for us. In the meantime, lady, I'll build up preparations for a war that will put your brother to shame. Make all the speed you can, and you'll have what you want.

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.

Thank you, my lord. May the all-powerful Jove make me, weak as I am, so very weak, the one who reconciles you! A war between you two would be as if the world split apart, and the gap had to be filled with the bodies of the slain.

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 the blame for this starts, turn your anger that way, for our faults can never be so evenly balanced that your love can be divided evenly between them. Get ready for your journey; choose your own attendants, and spend whatever you have a mind to.