The open sea. Edgar Lee Masters

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       He’s forty-two and ripe. She’s twenty-eight,

       Fruit fresh and blushing, most mature and rich;

       Her voice an instrument of many strings

       That yielded laughter, wisdom, folly, song,

       And tales of many lands, in Arabic,

       And Hebrew, Syriac and Parthiac.

       She spoke the language of the troglodytes,

       The Medes and others. And when Antony

       Sent for her in Cilicia, she took time,

       Ignored his orders, leisurely at last

       Sailed up the Cydnus in a barge whose stern

       Was gilded, and with purple sails. Returned

       His dining invitation with her own,

       And bent his will to hers. He went to her,

       And found a banquet richer than his largess

       Could give her. For while feasting, branches sunk

       Around them, budding lights in squares and circles,

       And lighted up their heaven, as with stars.

       She found him broad and gross, but joined her taste

       To him in this. And then their love began.

       And while his Fulvia kept his quarrels alive

       With force of arms in Rome on Octavianus,

       And while the Parthian threatened Syria,

       He lets the Queen of Egypt take him off

       To Alexandria, where he joins with her

       The Inimitable Livers; and in holiday

       Plays like a boy and riots, while great Brutus

       Is rotting in the earth for Virtue’s sake;

       And Theophrastus for three hundred years

       Has changed from dust to grass, and grass to dust!

       And Cleopatra’s kitchen groans with food.

       Eight boars are roasted whole—though only twelve

       Of these Inimitable Livers, with the Queen

       And Antony are to eat—that every dish

       May be served up just roasted to a turn.

       And who knows when Marc Antony may sup?

       Perhaps this hour, perhaps another hour,

       Perhaps this minute he may call for wine,

       Or start to talk with Cleopatra; fish—

       For fish they did together. On a day

       They fished together, and his luck was ill,

       And so he ordered fishermen to dive

       And put upon his hook fish caught before.

       And Cleopatra feigned to be deceived,

       And shouted out his luck. Next day invited

       The Inimitable Livers down to see him fish,

       Whereat she had a diver fix his hook

       With a salted fish from Pontus. Antony

       Drew up amid their laughter. Then she said:

       “Sweet Antony, leave us poor sovereigns here,

       Of Pharos and Canopus, to the rod;

       Your game is cities, provinces and kingdoms.”

       Were Antony serious, or disposed to mirth?

       She had some new delight. She diced with him,

       Drank with him, hunted with him. When he went

       To exercise in arms, she sat to see.

       At night she rambled with him in the streets,

       Dressed like a servant-woman, making mischief

       At people’s doors. And Antony disguised

       Got scurvy answers, beatings from the folk,

       Tormented in their houses. So it went

       Till Actium. She loved him, let him be

       By day nor night alone, at every turn

       Was with him and upon him.

      Well, this life

       Was neither virtue, glory, fame, nor study,

       But it was life, and life that did not slay

       A Cæsar for a word like Liberty.

       And it was life, its essence nor changed nor lost

       By Actium, where his soul shot forth to her

       As from a catapult a stone is cast,

       Seeing her lift her sixty sails and fly.

       His soul lived in her body as ’twere born

       A part of her, and whithersoever she went

       There followed he. And all their life together

       Was what it was, a rapture, justified

       By its essential honey of realest blossoms,

       In spite of anguished shame. When hauled aboard

       The ship of Cleopatra, he sat down

       And with his two hands covered up his face!

       Brutus had penitence at Philippi

       For virtue which befooled him. Antony

       Remorse and terror there at Actium

       Deserting with his queen, for love that made

       His body not his own, as Brutus’ will

       Was subject to the magic of a word. …

       For what is Virtue, what is Love? At least

       We know their dire effects, that both befool,

       Betray, destroy.

      The Queen and Antony

       Had joined the Inimitable Livers, now they joined

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