The Necropolitan Sentinel

Some of you may recall my love for Antony & Cleopatra. Antony is dead, and she is visited by the Roman Dolabella in the Monument:

Dol. Most Noble Empresse, you haue heard of me

Cleo. I cannot tell

Dol. Assuredly you know me

Cleo. No matter sir, what I haue heard or knowne: You laugh when Boyes or Women tell their Dreames, Is’t not your tricke?

Dol. I vnderstand not, Madam

Cleo. I dreampt there was an Emperor Anthony. Oh such another sleepe, that I might see But such another man

Dol. If it might please ye

Cleo. His face was as the Heau’ns, and therein stucke A Sunne and Moone, which kept their course, & lighted The little o’th’ earth

Dol. Most Soueraigne Creature

Cleo. His legges bestrid the Ocean, his rear’d arme Crested the world: His voyce was propertied As all the tuned Spheres, and that to Friends: But when he meant to quaile, and shake the Orbe, He was as ratling Thunder. For his Bounty, There was no winter in’t. An Anthony it was, That grew the more by reaping: His delights Were Dolphin-like, they shew’d his backe aboue The Element they liu’d in: In his Liuery Walk’d Crownes and Crownets: Realms & Islands were As plates dropt from his pocket

Dol. Cleopatra

Cleo. Thinke you there was, or might be such a man As this I dreampt of?

Dol. Gentle Madam, no

Cleo. You Lye vp to the hearing of the Gods: But if there be, not euer were one such It’s past the size of dreaming: Nature wants stuffe To vie strange formes with fancie, yet t’ imagine An Anthony were Natures peece, ‘gainst Fancie, Condemning shadowes quite

Knowing myself, I have aspired to be that man, but that man was Andrew Breitbart. And if ever one of his children reads of him in these lines, everything he did he did for you, because he knew that we are inseverable.

Cynthia Yockey has thoughts on supposed homophobe Andrew Breitbart.

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