JULIUS

CÆSAR.

ACT I. SCENE Ì.

Rome. A Street.

Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and a rabble of Citizens.

Flavius.

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 profeflion?-Speak, what trade art thou?
1 Cit. Why, fir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What doft thou with thy best apparel on →→

You, fir; what trade are you?

2 Cit. Truly, fir, in refpect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would fay, a cobbler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? anfwer me directly,

2 Cit. A trade, fir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe confcience; which is, indeed, fir, a mender of bad foals. Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, fir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, fir, I can mend you.

Mar. What meanet thou by that? Mend me, thou faucy fellow?

2 Cit. Why, fir, cobble you.

B

Flav.

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

2 Cit. Truly, fir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradefman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, fir, a furgeon to old fhoes when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather, have gone upon my handy-work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to-day? Why doft thou lead these men about the streets?

2 Cit. Truly, fit, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, fir, we make holiday, to fee Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conqueft brings he

home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than fenfeless 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 fee great Pompey pass the streets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal fhout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your founds,
Made in her concave fhores?

And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now cull out a holiday?

way,

And do you now ftrew flowers in his
That cornes in triumph over Pompey's blood?

Be gone;

Run

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs muft light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Affemble all the poor men of your fort;

Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears

Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt Citizens.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltinefs.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol;
This way will I Difrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do fo?

You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Cæfar'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 Cæfar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch ;

Who elfe would foar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

SCENE II.

The fame. A publick Place.

[Exeunt.

Enter, in proceffion, with mufick, CESAR; ANTONY, for the course; CALPHURNIA, PORTIA, DECIUS, CICERO, BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and CASCA, a great crowd following; among them a Soothsayer.

Caf. Calphurnia,—

Cafca.

Peace, ho! Cæfar speaks. [Mufick ceases.

Caf.

Cal. Here, my lord.

Calphurnia,

Caf. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.-Antonius.

Ant. Cæfar, my lord.

Caf. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia: for our elders fay, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their fteril curfe.

Ant.

I fhall remember:

When Cæfar fays, Do this, it is perform'd.
Caf. Set on; and leave no ceremony out.
Sooth. Cæfar.

Caf. Ha! Who calls?

[Mufick

Cafca. Eid every noise be still :-Peace yet again. [Mufick ceafes.

Caf. Who is it in the prefs, that calls on me? I hear a tongue, fhriller than all the musick, Cry, Cæfar: Speak; Cæfar is turn'd to hear. Sooth. Beware the ides of March. Caf. What man is that? Bru. A foothfayer, bids you beware the ides of March. Caf. Set him before me, let me fee his face.

Caf. Fellow, come from the throng: Look upon Cæfar. Caf. What fay't thou to me now? Speak once again. Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

Caf. He is a dreamer; let us leave him ;-pass.

[Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS. Caf. Will you go fee the order of the courfe? Bru. Not I.

Caf. I pray you, do.

Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack fome part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Le

Let me not hinder, Caffius, your defires!

I'll leave you.

Caf. Brutus, I do obferve you now of late : I have not from your eyes that gentleness, And fhow of love, as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.

Bru.

Caffius,

Be not deceiv'd: If I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am,
Of late, with paffions of fome difference,
Conceptions only proper to myfelf,
Which give some foil, perhaps, to my
But let not therefore my good friends be griev’d;
(Among which number, Caffius, be you one ;)
Nor conftrue any further my neglect,

behaviours:

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the fhows of love to other men.

Caf. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your paffion; By means whereof, this breaft of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you fee your face?

Eru. No, Caffius: for the eye fees not itself, But by reflection, by fome other things.

Caf. 'Tis juft:

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no fuch mirrors, as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

That you might fee your fhadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best refpect in Rome,
(Except immortal Cæfar,) speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.