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Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule ? What doft 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

I conscience ; which is indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

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.

Flav. What mean'st thou by that? mend me, thou faucy 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 men's matters, nor woman's matters; but withal 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 handy-work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to day? Why dost thou lead thefe men about the streets ? Cab. "

Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get myself into more work.” But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice! what conquest brings What tributaries follow him to Rome, [he home? To

grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you iones, you worse than lenteless things! 0

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

'o towers and windows, yea, to chimney.tops,
Your infants in your arms; and there have fat
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 no: made an universal shout,


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

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 that fanli ;
Afsemble 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 kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners, See, whe'r their bafest mettle be not mov'd ; They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness. 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 fo? You know it is the feaft of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter, let no images Be hung with Cæsar'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 pluck'd 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.

S CE N E II. Enter Cæfar, Anthony, for the course, Calphurnia,

Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Callius, Casca, and a Soothsayer. Cæf. Calphurnia, Casca. Peace, ho! Cæfar speaks. Cef. Calphurnia, ceremonies, or religious ornamen's,


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Calp. Here, my Lord.

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

Ant. Cæfar, my Lord.
Caf. Forget not in your speed, Antonius,
To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say,
The barren touched in this holy chace,
Shake off their steril curse.

Ant. I shall remember.
When Cæsar says, Do this; it is perform’d.

Caf. Set on, and leave no ceremony out.
Sooth. Cælar,
Caf. Ha! who calls ?
Casca. Bid every noise be ftill; peace yet again.

Caf. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, Thriller than all the music,
Cry, Cæfar. Speak; Cæfar is turn’d to hear.

Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Cæs. What man is that?
Bru. A Soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
Cæs. Set him before me, let me see his face.
Gaf. Fellow, come from the throng, look upon Cæsar.
Céf. What say’ít thou to me now? speak once again.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Cæs. He is a dreamer, let us leave him ; pass.

[Exeunt Cæfar and train.
SC E N E III. Manent Brutus and Cassius.
Caf. Will you go see the order of the course ?
Brut. Not I.
Caf. 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.

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

friend that loves you.
Bru. i'affi is,
Be not deceiv'd: if I have veil'd my look,

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