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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. JULIUS CÆSAR.
triumvirs CINNA, a poet. OCTAVIUS CÆSAR,
after the MARCUS ANTONIUS,
death of Another Poet. M. ÆMILIUS LEPIDUS,
Julius Cæ- LUCILIUS,
friends to Brutus PUBLIUS,
and Cassius. POPILIUS LENA,
conspirators CLAUDIUS, TREBONIUS, against Ju- STRATO,
servants to Brutus. LIGARIUS, lius Cæsar. LUCIUS, DECIUS BRUTUS, METELLUSCIMBER,
PINDARUS, servant to Cassius. FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, tribunes.
CALPHURNIA, wife to Cæsar. ARTEMIDORUS, a sophist of Portia, wife to Brutus. Cnidos.
Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c. SCENE - during a great part of the play at Rome; afterwards near
Sardis, and near Philippi.
SCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUB, and a rabble 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
First Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.
Mar. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
Sec. 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.
Sec. Cit. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what
trade? Sec. Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. Mar. What meanest thou by that? mend me,
saucy fellow! Sec. Cit. Why, sir, cobble
you. Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
Sec. 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 awl. 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 neats-leather have gone upon my handiwork.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ?
Sec. 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! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd
to walls and battlements,