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Dramatis Personæ.


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} Senatorso

Friends to Brutas and Caftus.

Vetavius Cæsar,
M. Antony,

Triumvirs, 'after the Death of Julius Cæsar,
M. Æmil. Lepidus,

Conspiratori again Julius Cæfat,
Decius Brutus,
Metellus Cimber,
Popilius Læna,

Tribunes and Enemies to Cæfar.
Artemidorus, a Sopbij of Cnidos.
A Sourbsayer.
Young Cato.
Cinna, a Poet,
Anotber Poet,

Servants of Brutus,
Pindarus, Servant of Caffius.
Gbost of Julius Cæsar.
Oiber Plebeians,
Calphurnia, Wife to Cæfar,
Porcia, Wife to Brutus.

Guards and Attendants.

SCENE, for the three forf Aås, at Rome: afterwardo

at an Išle near Mutina at Sardis; and Philippi.


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SCENE, a Street in ROME.
Enter Flavius, (1) Marullus, and certain Commoners,

ENCE; home, you idle creatures, get you

Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk

Upon a labouring day, without the fign Of your profesion? Speak, what trade art thou ?

Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter. Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, Sir,- what trade are you?

Cob. Truly, Sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou ? answer me directly.

Cob. A trade, Sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

(1) Murellus.] I have, upon the authority of Plutarıb, &c. given to this Tribune, kis right name,



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Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

Cob. Nay, I beseech you, Sir, be not out with me : yet if you be out, Sir, I can mend you.

(2) Flav. What mean't thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow ?

Cob. Why, Sir, cobble you.
Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou !

Cob. Truly, Sir, all that I live by, is the awl: I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor woman's matters; but with-all, I am, indeed, Sir, a surgeon to old Thoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod on neats-leather, have gone upon my handy-work.

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

Cob. Truly, Sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, Sir, we make holi. day to fee Cafar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice! what conquest brings

he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! () 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 fate
The live long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal fhout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire ?

(2) Mar. What mean't ibou by that? ] As the Cobler, in the preceding speech, replies to Fluvius, not to Narullus; 'cis plain, I think, this speech soust be given to Flavius,


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And do you now call out an holiday ?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?

Be gone

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

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fuult
Afsemble all the poor men of your Sort;
Draw them to Tyber bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, 'till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners. See, where their basest mettle be not mov'd ; They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness, Go you down that


tow'rds the Capitol,
This way will l; 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 Ca far'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, pluckt from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;
Who else would foar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

[Exeunt severally. Enter Cæfar, Antony for the Course, Calphurnia, Porcia,

Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer.
Cef, Calphurnia,
Casc. Peace, ho! Cæfar speaks.
Cef. Calphurnia,
Calp. Here, my Lord,

Caj. Stand you directly in Antonius' way,
When he doth run his courie Antonius,

Ant. Cæsar, my Lord.

Caj. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our Elders say,

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