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Dramatis Personæ.


} Senators.

} Friends to Brutus and Caftus

Détavius Cæsar,
M. Antony,

Triumvirs, 'after ebe Death of Julius Cæsar.
M. Æmil. Lepidus,

Conspiratört against Julius Cæsat.
Decius Brutus,
Metellus Cimber,
Popilius Læna,

Tribunes and Enemies to Cæfar.
Artemidorus, a Sopbij of Cnidos.
A Sourbsayer.
Young Cato.
Cinna, a Poet,
Anot ber Poet,

Servants of Brutus.
Pindarus, Servant of Caffius.
Gbos of Julius Cæfar,
Orber Plebeianse
Calphurnia, Wife ro Cæfar,
Porcia, Wife so Brutus.

Guards and Attendants.

Y 1

SCENE, for the three forft Axts, at Rome: afterwas de

at an Ifte near Mutina ; at Sardis; and Philippi.

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SCENE, a Street in ROME.
Enter Flavius, (1) Marullus, and certain Commoners,

FL A V. I V S.
#ENCE; home, you idle creatures, get 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 profession? Speak, what trade art thou ?

Car. Why, Sir, à carpenter. Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule ? What doft thou with thy beft 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 conscience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

(1) Murellus.) I have, upon the authority of Plutarib, &c. given to this Tribune, kis right name, Marullas.



A 3

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.

(2) Flav. What mean't thou by that? mend me, thou saucy 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 tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters; but with-all, I am, indeed, Sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod on neats-leather, have gone upon my handy-work.

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

Cob. Truly, Sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee Cafar, and to rejoice in his triumph, Mar. Wherefore rejoice what conqueft 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! () you hard hearts !


cruel men of Rome! Knew you not Pompey ? many a time and oft Have

up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms; and there have fate
The live long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the ítreets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal Mout,
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 ?

(2) Mar. What mean'lt thou by tbat? ] As the Cobler, in the preceding speech, replies to Fluvius, not to Marullus ; 'cis plain, I think, this speech sauf be given to Flavius,


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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 ?

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 fuult
Assemble all the poor men of your Sorts
Draw them to Tyber bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, 'till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners. See, where their bafest mettle be not mov'd ; They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness, you

down that way tow'rds the Capitol,
This way will l; difrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies,

Mar. May we do fo?
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter, let no images
Be hung with Cafar's trophies; l'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the itreets :
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers, pluckt from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch ;
Who else would soar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

[Exeunt severally. Enter Cæfar, Antony for the Course, Calphurnia, Porcia,

Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Casca, a Soothsayer.
Cæs, Calphurnia,-
Casc. Peace, ho! Cafar speaks.
Cef. Calphurnia,
Calp. Here, my Lord.

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

Ant. Cæfar, my Lord.

Cæs. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our Elders say,

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