SCENE, for the three first acts, at Rome; afterwards at an ifle near Mutina, at Sardis, and Philippi.

H

you home.

Is this a holiday? what! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day, without the fign Of your profeffion? Speak, what trade art thou?

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Gdr.

Gar. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule??T What doft thou with thy beft apparel on?d on obsM You, Sir, What trade are you?

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25 LuA Gob. Truly, Sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am^ but, as you would fay, a cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Anfwer me directly. Cob. A trade, Sir, that I hope I may ufe with a fafe confcience; which is indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

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

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

Flav. What mean'ft thou by that? mend me, thou faucy fellow ?

Gob. 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 men's matters, nor woman's matters; but withal I am, indeed, Sir, a furgeon to old fhoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neats-leather have gone upon my handy-work.

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Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to day? Why doft thou lead thefe men about the streets? Cob. " Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get myfelf into more work." But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to see Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice! what conqueft brings What tributaries follow him to Rome, [he home? To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you ftones, you worfe than fenfelefs things! O 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 fat The live long day with patient expectation, To fee great Pompey país the ftreets of Rome. And when you faw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal ihout,

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That

That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your founds,
Made in his concave fhores ?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out an holiday?
And do you now ftrew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood!
Bei gone

Run to your houfes, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods, to intermit the plague
That needs muft light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and for that fault Affemble all the poor men of your fort;

Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kifs the most exalted fhores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners. See, whe'r their basest mettle be not mov'd; They vanith tongue-ty'd in their guiltinefs. Go you down that way tow'rds the Capitol, This way will I; difrobe the images,

If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies *. · Mar. May we do so ?

You know it is the feaft of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter, let no images Be hung with Cæfar's trophies. I'll about, And drive away the vulgar from the freets: So do you too, where you perceive them thick. Thefe growing feathers pluck'd from Cæfar's wing, Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;

Who elfe would foar above the view of men,

And keep us all in fervile fearfulness. [Exeunt feverally.

Enter Cæfar, Anthony, for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Cafca, and a Soothsayer.

Caf. Calphurnia,

Cafca. Peace, ho! Cæfar fpeaks.

Caf. Calphurnja,

ceremonies, or religious ornaments.

* T

Calp.

Calp. Here, my Lord.

Caf. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his courfe Antonius,

Ant. Cæfar, my Lord.

Caf. Forget not in your fpeed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders fay, The barren touched in this holy chace, Shake off their fteril curse.

Ant. I fhall remember.

When Cæfar fays, Do this; it is perform'd.
Caf. Set on, and leave no ceremony out.
Sooth. Cæfar,

Caf. Ha! who calls ?

Cafca. Bid every noife be ftill; peace yet again.
Caf. Who is it in the prefs that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, fhriller than all the mufic,
Cry, Cafar. Speak; Cæfar is turn'd to hear.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

Caf. What man is that?

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Bru. A Soothfayer bids you beware the ides of March. Caf. Set him before me, let me fee his face.

Caf. Fellow, come from the throng, look upon Cæfar. Caf. What fay't thou to me now? fpeak once again.

Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

Caf. He is a dreamer, let us leave him; pass.

[Exeunt Cæfar and train.

SCENE III. Manent Brutus and Caffius.

Caf. Will you go fee the order of the courfe?
Bru. Not I.

Caf. I pray you, do,

Bru. I am not gamefome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony:

Let me not hinder, Caffius, your defires;

I'll leave you.

Caf. Brutus, I do observe you now of late;
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And fhew of love as I was wont to have;
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.

Bru. Caffius,

Be not deceiv'd: if I have veil'd my look,