Upon a labouring day, without the sign Of your profession?-Speak, what trade art thou? Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? 2 Cit. 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. 2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soals. Mar. What trade, thou knave; thou naughty knave, what trade? 2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow? 2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you. Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou? 2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neats-leather, have gone upon my handywork. Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? 2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, 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! O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, And do you now put on your best attire? 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 fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to Tyber banks, and weep your tears Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt Citizens. See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd; You know, it is the feast of Lupercal. ACT 1. Flav. It is no matter; let no images Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt. SCENE II.---The same. A public Place. Enter, in Procession, with Music, CÆSAR; ANTONY, for the course; CALPHURNIA, PORTIA, DECIUS, CICERO, BRUTUS, CASSIUS, and CASCA, a great Crowd following; among them a Soothsayer. Cas. Calphurnia,— Casca. Peace, ho! Cæsar speaks. Cas. Calphurnia,— Cal. Here, my lord. [Music ceases. Cas. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.-Antonius. Ant. Cæsar, my lord. Cas. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia: for our elders say, 2 The barren, touched in this holy chase, Ant. I shall remember: When Cæsar says, Do this, it is perform'd. Cæs. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music. Cas. Ha! Who calls? Casca. Bid every noise be still :-Peace yet again [Music ceases. Cas. Who is it in the press, that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry, Cæsar: Speak; Cæsar is turn'd to hear. Sooth. Beware the ides of March. Cas. What man is that? Bru. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March. Cas. Set him before me; let me see his face. Cas. Fellow, come from the throng: Look upon Cæsar. Cas. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. Sooth. Beware the ides of March. Cas. He is a dreamer; let us leave him ;-pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRU. and CAS. Cas. Will you go see the order of the course? Bru. Not I. Cas. I pray you, do. Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness, And show of love, as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Bru. Cassius, Be not deceiv'd: If I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Of late, with passions of some difference, Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours: Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your pas sion; By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? Cas. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors, as will turn Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, |