“Is he a good man?” “Define ‘good’.”

Nothing could part us in life, but now in death we are likely to change places, you the Roman lying here in Egyptian soil, and I, helpless woman that I am, being buried in Italy.

Leave the fishing-rod, Great General, to us sovereigns of Pharos and Canopus. Your game is cities and kings and continents.

All strange and terrible events are welcome, but comforts we despise.

I will not be triumphed over.

In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.

My honour was not yielded, but conquered merely.

Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought.

Fool! Don’t you see now that I could have poisoned you a hundred times had I been able to live without you.

And make death proud to take us.