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JULIUS CÆSAR.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. JULIUS CÆSAR.

ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of CniOCTAVIUS CÆSAR,

Triumvirs, dos.

after the MARCUS ANTONIUS, Death of Ju

A Soothsayer. M. ÆMIL. LEPIDUS, lius Cæsar. CINNA, a Poet. Another Poet. CICERO, PUBLIUS, Senators

LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSAPOPILIUS LENA;

LA, young CATO, and VOLUMMARCUS BRUTUS,

NIUS; Friends to Brutus and CASSIUS,

Cassius. CASCA,

Conspira- VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS, TREBONIUS, tors against STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDALIGARIUS,

Julius Cæ- NIUS; Servants to Brutus. DECIUS BRUTUS,

PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius. METELLUS CIMBER, CINNA, FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, Tri- \ CALPHURNIA, Wife to Cæsar. bunes.

PORTIA, Wife to Brutus. Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c. SCENE, during a great part of the Play, at Rome: afterwards at Sardis;

and near Philippi.

sar.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Rome. A Street.
Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and a body of Citizens.

Flav. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home.
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign
Of your profession ? -- Speak, what trade art thou?

1 Cit. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on? –
You, Sir; what trade are you?

2 Cit. Truly, Sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

2 Cit. A trade, Sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad soles. Flav. What trade, thou knaye? thou naughty kpave, what

trade? 2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, Sir, be not out with me: yet,

if you be out, Sir, I can mend you.

Mar. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow? 2 Cit. Why, Sir, cobble

you.
Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

2 Cit. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with all. I am, indeed, Sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neatsleather have gone upon my handywork.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ?

2 Cit. Truly, Sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, Sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! 0! you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The live-long day, with patient expectation,

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but

appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen; and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort:
Draw them to Tyber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Citizens.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol:
This way will I. Disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.

Mar. May we do so?
You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.

The Same. A public Place. Enter, in Procession, with Music, CÆSAR; ANTONY, for the

course; CALPHURNIA, PORTIA, Decius, CICERO, BRUTUS, Cassius, and CASCA; a great Crowd following, among them a Soothsayer. Cæs. Calphurnia, Casca. Peace, họ! Cesar speaks.

[Music ceases. Cæs.

Calphurnia, Cal. Here, my lord.

Cæs. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course. Antonius.

Ant. Cæsar, my lord.

Cæs. Forget ņot, in your speed, Antonius,
To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say,
The barren, touched in this holy chase,
Shake off their steril curse.
Ant.

I shall remember:
When Cæsar says, “Do this,” it is perform’d.
Cæs. Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

[Music, Sooth. Cæsar! Cæs. Ha! Who calls ? Casca. Bid every noise be still. Peace yet again!

[Music ceases,
Cæs. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry, Cæsar! Speak: Cæsar is turn'd to hear,

Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Cæs.

What man is that?
Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
Cæs. Set him before me; let me see his face.
Cas. Fellow, come from the throng: look upon Cæsar.
Cæs. What say 'st thou to me now? Speak once again.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

Cæs. He is a dreamer; let us leave him:- - pass.

[Sennet. Exeunt all but Bru. and Cas.
Cas. Will you go see the order of the course?
Bru. Not I.
Cas. I pray you, do.

Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ;
I 'll leave you.

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.
Bru.

Cassius,
Be not deceiv'd: if I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours;
But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd,
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)
Nor construe any farther my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;
By means whereof, this breast of mine bath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other things.

Cas. 'T is just;
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors, as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard,

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