But, when I tell him, he hates Flatterers,

He sayes, he does; being then most flattered.
Let me worke:

For I can give his humour the true bent;

And I will bring him to the Capitoll.

Cas. Nay, we will all of us, be there to fetch him. Bru. By the eight houre, is that the uttermost? Cin. Be that the uttermost, and faile not then. Met. Caius Ligarius doth beare Cæsar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him.

Bru. Now good Metellus go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him Reasons, Send him but hither, and Ile fashion him.

Cas. The morning comes upon's:

Wee'l leave yoù Brutus,

240

And Friends disperse your selves; but all remember
What you have said, and shew your selves true Romans.
Bru. Good Gentlemen, looke fresh and merrily,
Let not our lookes put on our purposes,
But beare it as our Roman Actors do,

250

With untyr'd Spirits, and formall Constancie,
And so good morrow to you every one.

Exeunt.

Manet Brutus.

Boy: Lucius: Fast asleepe? It is no matter,
Enjoy the hony-heavy-Dew of Slumber:

Thou hast no Figures, nor no Fantasies,

Which busie care drawes, in the braines of men;
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

245-6. 1 1.-Rowe.

Enter Portia.

Por. Brutus, my

Lord.

260

Bru. Portia: What meane you? wherfore rise you now? It is not for your health, thus to commit

Your weake condition, to the raw cold morning.

270

Por. Nor for yours neither. Y'have ungently Brutus
Stole from my bed: and yesternight at Supper
You sodainly arose, and walk'd about,
Musing, and sighing, with your armes a-crosse:
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
You star'd upon me, with ungentle lookes.
I urg'd you further, then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stampt with your foote:
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not,
But with an angry wafter of your hand
Gave signe for me to leave you: So I did,
Fearing to strengthen that impatience
Which seem'd too much inkindled; and withall,
Hoping it was but an effect of Humor,
Which sometime hath his houre with every man.
It will not let you eate, nor talke, nor sleepe;
And could it worke so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevayl'd on your Condition,
I should not know you Brntus. Deare my Lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of greefe.

Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all.
Por. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health,
He would embrace the meanes to come by it.
Bru. Why so I do: good Portia go to bed.
Por. Is Brutus sicke? And is it Physicall

280

274. wafter: wafture-Rowe. 282. Condition: misprint IF 283. Brntus: Brutus-2-4F.

290

To walke unbraced, and sucke up the humours
Of the danke Morning? What, is Brutus sicke?
And will he steale out of his wholsome bed
To dare the vile contagion of the Night?
And tempt the Rhewmy, and unpurged Ayre,
To adde unto hit sicknesse? No my Brutus,
You have some sicke Offence within your minde,
Which by the Right and Vertue of my place
I ought to know of: And upon my knees,
I charme you, by my once commended Beauty,
By all your vowes of Love, and that great
Vow 300
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, your selfe; your halfe
Why you are heavy: and what men to night
Have had resort to you: for heere have beene
Some sixe or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darknesse.

Bru. Kneele not gentle Portia.

Por. I should not neede, if you were gentle Brutus. Within tho Bond of Marriage, tell me Brutus,

Is it excepted, I should know no Secrets

That appertaine to you? Am I your Selfe,

But as it were in sort, or limitation?

To keepe with you at Meales, comfort your Bed,

310

And talke to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the Suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus Harlot, not his Wife.

Bru. You are my true and honourable Wife,

As deere to me, as are the ruddy droppes

That visit my sad heart.

I

Por. If this were true, then should I know this secret. graunt I am a Woman; but withall,

295. bit: his-2-4F.

321

309. tho: the-2-4F.

A Woman that Lord Brutus tooke to Wife:
I graunt I am a Woman; but withall,
A Woman well reputed: Cato's Daughter.
Thinke you, I am no stronger then my Sex
Being so Father'd, and so Husbanded?

Tell me your Counsels, I will not disclose 'em:
I have made strong proofe of my

Constancie,

Giving my selfe a voluntary wound

Heere, in the Thigh: Can I beare that with patience,

And not my Husbands Secrets?

Bru. O ye Gods!

Render me worthy of this Noble Wife.

331

Knocke.

Harke, harke, one knockes: Portia go in a while,

And by and by thy bosome shall partake

The secrets of my Heart.

All my engagements, I will construe to thee,

All the Charractery of my sad browes:

Leave me with hast.

Enter Lucius and Ligarius.

Lucius, who's that knockes.

Exit Portia.

340

Luc. Heere is a sicke man that would speak with you. Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.

Boy, stand aside.

Caius Ligarius, how?

Cai. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue. Bru. O what a time have you chose out brave Caius To weare a Kerchiefe? Would you were not sicke. Cai. I am not sicke, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of Honor.

Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand Ligarius, 350 Had you a healthfull eare to heare of it.

Cai. By all the Gods that Romans bow before,

339, 341. 1 1.-POPE.

I heere discard my sicknesse.

Soule of Rome,

Brave Sonne, deriv'd from Honourable Loines,
Thou like an Exorcist, hast conjur'd up
My mortified Spirit. Now bid me runne,
And I will strive with things impossible,
Yea get the better of them.

Bru. A peece of worke,

What's to do?

That will make sicke men whole.

360

Cai. But are not some whole, that we must make sicke?

Bru. That must we also.

What it is my Caius,

I shall unfold to thee, as we are going,

To whom it must be done.

Cai. Set on your foote,

And with a heart new-fir'd, I follow you,

To do I know not what: but it sufficeth

That Brutus leads me on.

Bru. Follow me then.

Thunder.

Exeunt

Thunder & Lightning.

Enter Julius Caesar in his Night-gowne.

Cæsar. Nor Heaven, nor Earth,

Have beene at peace to night:

Thrice hath Calphurnia, in her sleepe cryed out, Helpe, ho: They murther Casar. Who's within?

Ser. My Lord.

Enter a Servant.

Cas. Go bid the Priests do present Sacrifice,

And bring me their opinions of Successe.

Ser. I will my Lord.

359-60. 1 1.-Rowe.

ΙΟ

Exit