Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

Cas.

Bru. You did.

Cas.

I denied you not.

I did not he was but a fool

That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart :
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru.

I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do 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; braved by his brother!
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed,
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,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru.
Sheathe 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 lived
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.

O Brutus !

What's the matter?

Bru.

Cas. Have not you 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.
Poet. [Within] Let me go in to see the generals;
There is some grudge between 'em ; 'tis not meet
They be alone.

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

Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius.
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'm 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; 'tis 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.

Away, away, be gone!

[Exit Poet.

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.
Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you
Immediately to us.
[Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.

Bru.

Lucius, a bowl of wine!

[Exit Lucius.

Cas. I did not think you could have been so angry.
Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.

Bru. No man bears sorrow better: Portia is dead.
Cas. Ha! Portia !

Bru. She is dead.

Cas. How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so?
O insupportable and touching loss!

Upon what sickness?

Bru.

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.

Cas. And died so?

Bru.

Cas.

Even so.

O ye immortal gods!

Re-enter Lucius, with wine and taper,
Give me a bowl of wine.

Bru. Speak no more of her.
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius,
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,
Bru. Come in, Titinius!

Re-enter Titinius, with Messala.
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.

[Drinks.

[Drinks.

[Exit Lucius.

That, methinks, is strange.

Bru. Why ask you? hear you aught of her in yours? 12

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.
Of marching to Philippi presently?

Cas. I do not think it good.

Bru.

Cas.

Your reason?

This it is:

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

These people at our back.

Cas.

Hear me, good brother.
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. O

Cas.

Then, with your will, go on;
We'll along ourselves and meet them at Philippi.
Bru. 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?

Cas.

No more.

Good night:

Early to-morrow will we rise and hence.

Bru. Lucius! [Re-enter Lucius.] My gown. [Exit Lucius.] Farewell, good Messala:

Good-night, Titinius noble, noble Cassius,

Good night, and good repose.

Cas.

O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night:

Never come such division 'tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.

Bru.

Cas. Good night, my lord.

Bru.

Every thing is well.

Tit. Mes. Good night, Lord Brutus.

Bru.

Re-enter Lucius, with the gown.

Give me the gown.

Where is thy instrument?

Luc. Here in the tent.

Bru.

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.

Luc. Varro and Claudius!

Enter Varro and Claudius.

Var. Calls my lord?

Bru. 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.

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

[Var. and Clau. 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.

21

[Music, and a song.

This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber,