[Strikes him again.]
Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head!
[She hales him up and down.]
Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine,
Smarting in ling’ring pickle.
MESSENGER.
Gracious madam,
I that do bring the news made not the match.
CLEOPATRA.
Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage,
And I will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.
MESSENGER.
He’s married, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
Rogue, thou hast lived too long.
[Draws a knife.]
MESSENGER.
Nay then I’ll run.
What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.