Bru. Impatient of my absence;

And grief, that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themfelves fo ftrong; (for with her death
That tidings came) with this fhe fell diftract,
And, her attendants abfent, swallow'd fire, '
Caf. And dy'd fo?

Bru. Even fo.

Caf. O ye immortal Gods!

Re-enter Lucius with wine and tapers.

Bru. Speak no more of her.-Give me a bowl of

wine.

In this I bury all unkindnefs, Caffius.

[Drinks. Caf. My heart is thirfty for that noble pledge :Fill, Lucius, 'till the wine o'er fwell the cup; I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.

Bru. Come in, Titinius :--Welcome, good Meffala.

Enter Titinius, and Messata.

Now fit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our neceffities.
Caf. Portia art thou gone?

Bru. No more, I pray you.-—
Meffala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius, and Mark Antony,
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition towards Philippi.

1

And, her attendants abfint, fwallow'd fire. This circumftance is taken from Plutarch.

It may not, however, be amifs to remark, that the death of Portia wants that foundation which has hitherto entitled her to a place in poetry, as a pattern of Roman fortitude. She is reported, by Pliny I think, to have died at Rome of a lingering illness while Brutus was abroad; but fome writers feem to look on a natural death as a derogation from a diftinguished character.

STEEVENS,

Mef

Mef. Myself have letters of the self-fame tenour.
Bru. With what addition?

Mef. That by profcription, and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,

Have put to death an hundred fenators.

Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree;
Mine speak of seventy fenators, that dy'd
By their profcriptions, Cicero being one.
Caf. Cicero one?

Mef. Cicero is dead;

And by that order of profcription.

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

Mef. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
Bru. Nothing, Meffala.

Mef. That, methinks, is ftrange.

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

Mef. No, my lord.

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. Mef. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell. For certain fhe is dead, and by ftrange manner. Bru. Why, farewel, Portia.-We muft die, Meffala:

With meditating that fhe muft die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

Mef. Even fo great men great loffes fhould endure.
Caf. I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it fo.

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

Of marching to Philippi presently?

Caf. I do not think it good.

Bru. Your reason ?

Caf. This it is:

'Tis better, that the enemy feek us:

So fhall we wafte his means, weary his foldiers,

G 4

Doing

Doing himself offence; whilft we, lying ftill,
Are full of reft, defence, and nimbleness.

Bru. Good reafons muft of force give place to better.

The people, 'twixt Philippi and this ground,
Do ftand but in a forc'd affection;
For they have grudg'd us contribution :
The enemy, marching along by them,
By them fhall make a fuller number up,
Come on, refresh'd, new added, and encourag'd;
From which advantage fhall we cut him off,
If at Philippi we do face him there,

These people at our back.

Caf. Hear me, good brother

Bru. Under your pardon.-You must note befide, That we have try'd 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 fhallows, and in miferies.
On fuch a full fea are we now a-float;

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

Caf. Then, with your will, go on; we will along Ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.

Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey neceffity;

Which we will niggard with a little rest.

There is no more to say.

2 There is a tide, &c.] This paffage is poorly imitated by B. and Fletcher, in the Custom of the Country.

There is an hour in each man's life appointed

To make his happiness, if then he feize it, &c. STEEVENS.

Caf.

Caf. No more. Good night:

Early to-morrow will we rife, and hence.

Bru. Lucius, my gown. good Meffala,

[Exit Luc.] Farewel,

Good night, Titinius.-Noble, noble Caffius,
Good night, and good repofe.

Caf. O my dear brother!

This was an ill beginning of the night :
Never come fuch divifion 'tween our fouls,
Let it not, Brutus !

Re-enter Lucius with the gown.

Bru. Every thing is well.

Tit. Mef. Good night, lord Brutus.

Bru. Farewell, every one.

[Exeunt.

Give me the gown. Where is thy inftrument?

Luc. Here, in the tent.

Bru. What, thou speak'st drowsily?

Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o'erwatch'd, Call Claudius, and fome other of my men;

I'll have them fleep on cufhions in my tent,

Luc. Varro, and Claudius!

Enter Varro and Claudius.

Var. Calls my lord?

Bru. I pray you, firs, lie in my tent, and fleep; It may be, I fhall raife you by and by, On bufinefs to my brother Caffius.

Var. So please you, we will ftand, and watch your
pleasure.

Bru. I will not have it fo: lie down, good firs
It may be, I fhall otherwife bethink me.
Look, Lucius, here's the book I fought for fo;
I put it in the pocket of my gown.

Luc. I was fure, your lordship did not give it me.
Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much for-

getful.

Canft

Canft thou hold up thy heavy eyes a while,
And touch thy inftrument, 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, fir.

Bru. I fhould not urge thy duty paft thy might; I know, young bloods look for a time of rest. Luc. I have flept, my lord, already.

Bru. It was well done; and thou shalt fleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live,

I will be good to thee.

[Mufick and a fong. This is a fleepy tune:-O murd'rous flumber! Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,

That plays thee mufick?-Gentle knave, good night.
I will not do thee fo much wrong to wake thee.
If thou dost nod, thou break'sft thy instrument;
I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.
-Let me fee, let me fee,-Is not the leaf turn'd

down,

Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

[He fits down to read.

Enter the ghost of Cafar.

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

That shapes this monftrous apparition.

It comes upon me:-Art thou any thing?
Art thou fome God, fome angel, or fome devil,

That mak'ft my blood cold, and my hair to ftare?
Speak to me, what thou art.

Ghost. Thy evil fpirit, Brutus.

Bru. Why com'ft thou?

Ghoft. To tell thee, thou shalt fee me at Philippi. Bru. Well then I fhall fee thee again? 3

3 Will then, I shall fee thee again.] This reply is taken exactly from the old tranflation of Plutarch.

STEEVENS.

Ghost.