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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; 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; 1, that deny'd thee gold, will give my heart: Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov’dst him

better 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.

O Brutus! Bru.

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, 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, 'tis 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 cynick 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. [E.rit Poet.

Enter Lucilius and Titinius.

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. 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 eyils. Bru. No man bears sorrow better:-Portia is

dead.
Cas. Ha! Portia?
Bru. She is dead.
Cas. How scap'd 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 sor
Bru. Even so.
Cas. O ye immortal gods!

Enter Lucius, with wine and tapers. Bru. Speak no more of her.—Give me a bowl

of wine:In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [Drinks.

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

No more,

Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. Bru. Come in, Titinius:-Welcome, good Mes

sala.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.

Cas. Portia! art thou gone?
Bru.

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.

Ay, 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, farewel, Portia.-We must die, Mes

sala: With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. Mes. Even so great men great losses should en

dure. 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.

Your reason?
Cas.

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 forc'd affection;

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