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Cassius—Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me 110 further.

Brutus—Away, slight man!

Cassius—Is't possible?

Brutus—Hear me for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cassius—O ye gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?

Brutus—All this? Ay, more; fret till your proud heart break; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish.

Cassius—Is it come to this?

Brutus—You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well; for mine own part
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cassius—You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;
I said an elder soldier, not a better;
Did I say " better"?

Brutus—If you did, I care not.

Cassim —When Cfesar liv'd, he durst not thus ha ve mov'd me.
Brutus—Peace, peace I you durst not thus have tempted him.
Cassius—I durst not?
Brutus—No.

Cassius- What? Durst not tempt him?

Brutus—For your life you durst not.

Cassius—Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Brutus- -You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means;
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered 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!

Cassius—I denied you not

Bruins—You did.

Cassius—I did not: he was but a fool

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Brutus—1 do not, till you practice them on me.
Cassius—You love me not.
BriUus—I do not like your faults.
Cassias—A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Brutus—A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.

Cassius—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;
Cheeked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyesi 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 Itoman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou didst at CaBsar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Brutus—Sheathe your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
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.

Otusius—Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?
Bruins—When I spoke that I was ill-tempered, too.
Camus—Do you confess so much? Give me your hand,
Brutus—And my heart, too. [Embracing.]
Cassius—O Brutus!
Brutus—What's the matter?

Cassius—Have you not love enough to bear with me. When that ra*h humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Brutus—Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so

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Brutus hath rived my heart "FATHER,TAKE MY HAND."—Henry N. Cobb.

The way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud
Is gathering thickly o'er my head, and loud
The thunders roar above me. See, I stand
Like one bewildered! Father, take my hand,

And through the gloom

Lead safely home
Thy child I

The day goes fast, my Father! and the night
Is drawing darkly down. My faithless sight
Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band.
Encompass me. O Father! take my hand.

And from the night

Lead up to light
Thy child!

The way is long, my Father! and my soul
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal:
While yet I journey through this weary land,
Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand

Quickly and straight

Lead to heaven's gate
Thy child I

The path is rough, my Father! Many a thorn
Has pierced me; and my weary feet, all torn
And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy command
Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand;

Then, safe and blest,

Lead up to rest
Thy child!

The throng is great my Father! Many a doob;,
And fear and danger compass me about;
And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand
Or go alone. O Father! take my hand,

And through the throng

Lead safe along
Thy child!

The cross is heavy, Father! I have borne
It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn
And fainting spirit rise to that blest land .
Where crowns are given. Fathei, take my hat;

And reaching down

Lead to the crown
Thy child 1

THE GRACIOUS ANSWER—Henry N. Core.

The way is dark, my child! but leads to light.
I would not always have thee walk by sight.
My dealings now thou canst not understand.
1 meant it so; but I will take thy hand,

And through the gloom

Lead safely home
My child!

The day goes fast, my child! But is the night
"Darker to me than day? In me is light!
Keep close to me, and every spectral band
Gf fears shall vanish. I will take thy hand,

And through the night

Lead up to light
My child!

The way is long, my child! But it shall be
Not one step longer than is best for thee;
And thou shalt know, at last, when thou shalt stand
Safe at the gcal, how I did take thy hand,

And quick and straight

Lead to heaven's gate
My child!

The path is rough, my child! But oh! how sweet
Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet,
When thou shalt reach the borders of that land
To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand,

And safe and blest

With me shalt rest
My child!

The throng is great, my child! But at thy side
Thy Father walks: then be not terrified,
For I am with thee; will thy foes command
To let thee freely pass; will take thy hand,

And through the throng

Lead safe along
My child!

The cross is heavy, child! Yet there was One
Who bore a heavier for thee: my Son,
My well-beloved. For him bear thine; and stand
With him at last; and, from thy Father's hand,

Thy cross laid down,

Receive a crown,
My child!

HEPSY'S AMBITION— Estelle Thomson.

Some folks thought Hcpsy had talent. Perhaps she had. At all events she was tired of such a humdrum life as she led, and longed to be doing something in the world that people might be aware of the fact that she lived. And then she wanted money, too. To be sure, she might sew. But she disliked close confinement to a sewing-room. She might secure a situation as governess or housekeeper. But that was too commonplace. Hepsy was ambitious.

Why not be an authoress? People did make a living in that way. Who knew but she might become a poetess of renown? The very idea caused her heart to beat with unaccustomed rapidity, as she thought of herself flattered and admired for the charms of her mind.

Yes, she would immediately commence a poem which should be no merely commonplace affair of rhyme and jingle, but a beautiful drawing out and blending in harmony of all the finest thoughts and fancies of her brain. She would begin her task right away while the inspiration was upon her. So she wheeled up an easy chair before the writing-desk, drew forth pen and paper, ran her fingers several times frantically through her hair, after the manner of literary characters, and—tried to think.

She did hope no one would intrude. She must of course put all the minor responsibilities of worldly life entirely out of her mind. Well, she would call her poem—let's see! what would she call it? How surprised her friends would be when they read it! Wouldn't it be delightful, though, to create such a sensation!

Oh, but about the title! Well, as this was the first, she would—she would—oh, yes! she knew now. She would dedicate it to some unknown friend. Ah, but that was such a brilliant idea! How nicely it would look written! And she wrote it—

"To my unknown friend."

Now how should she begin? How did other famous au. thors usually begin? She really could not recall any fine poems just then. She took a volume of choice selections in poetry from the book-shelf, and ran her eye over the first

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