Vare,

Chitus,
confpira-Clas
tors a- Strato

gainst
F.Cæfar.

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 refpect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would fay, a cobler.

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

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

Cob. Nay, I befeech 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?

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 furgeon to eld 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.

દુઃ

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to day? Why doft thou lead thefe men about the streets? Cab." Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get myfelf into more work." But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee 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 worie 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 pafs the ftreets of Rome. And when you faw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an univerfal fhout,

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!
Be 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 baseft mettle be not mov'd;
They vanish 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 fo?

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 streets:
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 fearfulnefs. [Exeunt feverally.

S C EN E II.

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

Caf. Calphurnia,

Cafca. Peace, ho! Cæfar fpeaks.

Caf. Calphurnia,~-~~

ceremonies, or religious or namen's,

A 3

Calp.

Calp. Here, my Lord.

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

Ant. Cæfar, my Lord.

Antonius,

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

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?

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? speak once again. Sooth. Beware the ides of March.

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

[Exeunt Cæfar and train.

SCENE III. Manent Brutus and Caffius.

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

Caf. I pray you, do.

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

Let me not hinder, Caffius, your defires;

I'll leave you.

Caf. Brutus, I do obferve 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. Vaffias,

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