The Tragedy of Julius Cæsar.

ACT FIRST.

Scene I.

Rome. A street.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners.

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 ? First Com. 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?

Sec. Com. 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. Com. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a
safe conscience; which is indeed, sir, a mender

of bad soles.

ΙΟ

Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what

trade?

Sec. Com. 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, thou saucy fellow !

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Sec. Com. Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Sec. Com. 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 recover 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. Com. 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.

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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 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 Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds

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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 Tiber banks and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

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[Exeunt all the Commoners.
See, whether their basest metal be not moved;
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.

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[Exeunt. 80

Scene II.

A public place.

Flourish. Enter Casar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.

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

Ant. Cæsar, my lord?

Cas. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,

Ant.

To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say,
The barren, touched in this holy chase,
Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember:

When Cæsar says 'do this,' it is perform❜d.

Cas. Set on, and leave no ceremony out.

Sooth. Cæsar!

Cas. Ha! who calls?

Casca. Bid every noise be still: peace yet again!
Cas. Who is it in the press that calls on me?

ΤΟ

[Flourish.

I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry Cæsar.' Speak; Cæsar is turn'd to hear.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

Cas.

What man is that?

Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
Cas. Set him before me; let me see his face.

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Cas. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Cæsar.
Cas. What say'st thou to me now? speak once again.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

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

[Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius. 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:

Bru.

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.

Cassius,

Be not deceived: 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 grieved—
Among which number, Cassius, be you one-

Nor construe any further 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 hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

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