I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O! I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes.-There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold will give my heart.
Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,

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.

Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

Bru.

Sheath your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius! you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart, too.

Cas.

Bru.

O Brutus !What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

Bru.
Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
[Noise within.
Poet. [Within.] Let me go in to see the generals.
There is some grudge between them; 't is not meet
They be alone.

Luc. [Within.] You shall not come to them.
Poet. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.
Enter Poet.

Cas. How now! What's the matter?
Poet. For shame, you generals! What do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be,
For I have seen more years, I am sure, than ye.

Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme. Bru. Get you hence, sirrah: saucy fellow, hence. Cas. Bear with him, Brutus; 't is his fashion. Bru. I'll know his humour, when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence.

Cas.

1 Fellow.

1

Away, away! be gone. [Exit Poet.

[Drinks.

[Drinks.

Cas. 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.

Re-enter TITINIUS, with MESSALA.

Bru. Come in, Titinius.-Welcome, good Messala.Now sit we close about this taper here,

And call in question our necessities.
Cas. Portia, art thou gone ?
Bru.
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.

Mes. Myself have letters of the self-same tenour.
Bru. With what addition ?

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

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree:
Mine speak of seventy senators, that died
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.
Cas. Cicero one?

Mes. Cicero is dead,

And by that order of proscription.—

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
Bru. No, Messala.

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
Bru. Nothing, Messala.

Mes.
That, methinks, is strange.
Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?
Mes. No, my lord.

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.
Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell :
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
Bru. Why, farewell, Portia.-We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.
Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.
Cas. I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Bru. Well, to our work alive.-What do you think

'Tis 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.

Bru. 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-hearted', and encourag'd;
From which advantage shall we cut him off,
If at Philippi we do face him there,
These people at our back.

Hear me, good brother.

Cas.
Bru. 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.

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. [Servants lie down.
Luc. I was sure, your lordship did not give it me.
Bru. 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?
Luc. Ay, my lord, an 't please you.
Bru.

It does, my boy.

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

Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might:

I know, young bloods look for a time of rest.
Luc. I have slept, my lord, already.

Bru. 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.

[Music, and a Song.

This is a sleepy tune.-O murderous slumber!

Enter the Ghost of CÆSAR.

How ill this taper burns.-Ha! who comes here?
I think, it is the weakness of mine 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.
Bru.

Why com'st thou?
Ghost. To tell thee, thou shalt see me at Philippi.
Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again?
Ghost.

Ay, at Philippi. [Ghost vanishes. Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then.Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest : Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.Boy! Lucius !-Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake !— Claudius!

Luc. The strings, my lord, are false.

Bru. He thinks, he still is at his instrument.Lucius, awake!