O thou day o’ the world,
Chain mine arm’d neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants triumphing.
(iV. viii. 13.)

Then the morrow brings the end. His fleet deserts, and for the moment he suspects Cleopatra as the cause, and overwhelms her with curses and threats. The suspicion is natural, and his nature is on edge at the fiasco, which this time is no fault of his.

The soul and body rive not more in parting
Than greatness going off.[211]
(iV. xiii. 5.)

But his mood changes. Even before he hears Cleopatra’s disclaimer and the news of her alleged death, he has become calm, and only feels the futility of it all; he is to himself “indistinct, as water is in water” (iv. xiv. 10). Then comes the message that his beloved is no more, and his resolution is fixed:

Unarm me, Eros; the long day’s task is done,
And we must sleep.
(iV. xiv. 36.)

His thoughts are with his Queen in the Elysian fields where he will ask her pardon,[212] and he only stays for Eros’ help. But when Eros chooses his own rather than his master’s death, Antony in his large-hearted way gives him the praise, and finds in his act a lesson.

Thrice-nobler than myself!
Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what
I should, and thou couldst not.
(iV. xiv. 95.)

The wound he deals himself is not at once fatal. He lives long enough to comfort his followers in the heroic words:

Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate
To grace it with your sorrows: bid that welcome
Which comes to punish us, and we punish it
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up:
I have led you oft: carry me now, good friends,
And have my thanks for all.[213]

He has heard the truth about Cleopatra, and only importunes death that he may snatch that one last interview sacred to his love of her, his care for her, and to that serene, lofty dignity which now he has attained. The world seems a blank when this full life is out; and looking at the race that is left, we feel inclined to echo Cleopatra’s words above the corpse:

O, wither’d is the garland of the war,
The soldier’s pole is fall’n: young boys and girls
Are level now with men; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.
(iV. xv. 64.)