Abstract
Within the next one hundred lines the actor playing Cleopatra must shift from this glance into chaos, this vision of the future as his own performance cast into vile parody, to the suddenly lightsome yet weirdly consequential exchange with the rural fellow and his figs, to the final sustained aria which this long scene has been building toward: which, with its golden crowns and royal robes, its choric and funereal handmaidens, its sinister yet seductive reptiles, and above all its incandescence of language and thought, launches Cleopatra into eternity with a grandeur that stands (like Charmian at her last cosmetic touch) tremblingly on the brink
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