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Cassius. I did not think you could have been so angry. Brutus. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs!

Cassius. Of your philosophy you make no use,

If you give place to accidental evils.

Brutus. No man bears sorrow better.-Portia is dead.

Cassius. Ha! Portia?

Brutus. She is dead.

Cassius. How scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so?— O insupportable and touching loss!—

Upon what sickness?

Brutus.

Impatient of my absence,

And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong;-for with her death
That tidings came.-With this she fell distract,
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.

Cassius. And died so?

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Brutus.

Cassius.

Even so.

O ye immortal gods!

Enter LUCIUS, with wine and tapers.

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Brutus. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of

wine.

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

[Drinks.

Cassius. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;

I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.

Enter TITINIUS, with MESSALA.

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[Drinks.

Brutus. Come in, Titinius.-Welcome, good Messala.

Now sit we close about this taper here,

And call in question our necessities.
Cassius. Portia, art thou gone?
Brutus.

No more, I

pray you.

Messala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius and Mark Antony

Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

Messala. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenour.
Brutus. With what addition?

Messala. That by proscription and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Brutus. Therein our letters do not well agree;

Mine speak of seventy senators that died

By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

Cassius. Cicero one?

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And by that order of proscription.

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Brutus. No, Messala.

Messala. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Brutus. Nothing, Messala.

Messala.

That, methinks, is strange.

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Brutus. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

Messala. No, my lord.

Brutus. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Messala. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell;

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Brutus. Why, farewell, Portia.—We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

Messala. Even so great men great losses should endure. Cassius. I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Brutus. Well, to our work alive. Of marching to Philippi presently? Cassius. I do not think it good. Brutus.

Cassius.

What do you think

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Your reason?

This it is:

'T is better that the enemy seek us;

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,
Doing himself offence, whilst we lying still

Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

200

Brutus. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.

The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground
Do stand but in a forc'd affection,

For they have grudg'd us contribution.
The enemy, marching along by them,
By them shall make a fuller number up,
Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encourag'd;
From which advantage shall we cut him off
If at Philippi we do face him there,

These people at our back.

Cassius.

Hear me, good brother.

Brutus. Under your pardon.-You must note beside

That we have tried the utmost of our friends.

Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe :

The enemy increaseth every day;

We, at the height, are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

Cassius.

Then, with your will, go on;

We'll along ourselves and meet them at Philippi.

Brutus. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity,

Which we will niggard with a little rest.

There is no more to say?

Cassius.

No more.

Early to-morrow will we rise and hence.

Good night!

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Brutus. Lucius, my gown.-[Exit Lucius.] Farewell, good

Messala!

Good night, Titinius!-Noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose!

Cassius.

O my dear brother,

This was an ill beginning of the night;

Never come such division 'tween our souls!

Let it not, Brutus.

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Farewell, every one!—

Titinius, Messala. Good night, lord Brutus !
Brutus.

Give me the gown.

[Exeunt Cassius, Titinius, and Messala. Where is thy instrument?

Lucius. Here, in the tent.

Brutus.

What thou speak'st drowsily?

Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o'er-watch'd.

Call Claudius and some other of my men ;

I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Lucius. Varro and Claudius !

Enter VARRO and CLAUDIUS.

Varro. Calls my lord?

Brutus. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep;

It may be I shall raise you by and by

On business to my brother Cassius.

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Varro. So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure.

Brutus. I will not have it so: lie down, good sirs;

It may

be I shall otherwise bethink me.

Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so;

I put it in the pocket of my gown.

250

[Servants lie down.

Lucius. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. Brutus. Bear with me, good boy; I am much forgetful.

Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,
And touch thy instrument a strain or two?
Lucius. Ay, my lord, an 't please you.

Brutus.

It does, my boy;

I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.
Lucius. It is my duty, sir.

Brutus. I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
Lucius. I have slept, my lord, already.

Brutus. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again;

I will not hold thee long: if I do live,

I will be good to thee.—

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[Music and a song.

This is a sleepy tune.-O murtherous slumber,
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,

That plays thee music!-Gentle knave, good night;
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument :
I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.-
Let me see, let me see,-is not the leaf turn'd down
Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

Enter the Ghost of Cæsar.

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He sits down.

How ill this taper burns!-Ha! who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of my eyes

That shapes this monstrous apparition.

It comes upon me.—Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,

That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare?
Speak to me what thou art.

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus.
Brutus.

Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.
Brutus. Well; then I shall see thee again?
Ghost.

Why com'st thou ?

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Ay, at Philippi.
[Ghost vanishes.

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