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Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remem-
ber:
Did not great Julius bleed, for justice sake?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? what, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours,
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it;' I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself,
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to: you are not, Cassius.

Cas. I am.

Bru. I say, you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself

Have mind upon your health—tempt me no farther. , Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible? ,

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares?

.Cas. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this! ay, more. Fret, till your proud heart breaks; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble.—Must I budge? Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch, Under your testy humour; By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you. For, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. 5 J,

Cas. Is it come to this?

Bru. You say, you are a better soldier;
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For my own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me, every way—you wrong me,
Brutus;
I said, an elder soldier; not a better.
Did I say, better?

Bru. If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Caesar liVd, he durst not thus have mov'd

me. Bru. Peace, peace, you durst not so have tempted

him.
Cas. I durst not?
Bru. No.

Cas. What! durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life, you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd so much in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.—I did send to you,
For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me:—
For I can raise no money by vile means;
By Heavens I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold, to pay my legions,
Which you deny'd me:—Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so ?—
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts
Dash him to pieces!
Cas. I deny'd you not.

Bru. You did.

Cos. I did not he was but a fool,

That brought my answer back Brutus hath riv'd

my heart—r A friend should bear a friend's infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cos. You love me not

Bru. I do not like your faults.

Cos. A friendly eye could never see such faults.

Bru. A flatterer's would not, tho' they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cos. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come; Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world; Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother; Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed ; Set in a note book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, To cast into his teeth. O I could weep My spirit from mine eyes!—There is my dagger,

And here, my naked breast within, a heart,

Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold;

If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth,

I, that deny'd the gold, will give my heart;

Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him

better,
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

Bru. Sheath your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius! you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? give me your hand.

Bru. And my heart too. [Embracing.

Cas. O Brutus!

Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,
When you are over earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Enter Lucius.
Lucius, a Bowl of wine.

Cas. I did not think you could have been so angry.

[Exit Lucius.

Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils.

Bru. No man bears sorrow better—Portia's dead.

Cas. Ha! Portia?

Bru. She is dead.

Cas. How 'scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness?

Bru. Impatient of my absence, And grief, that young Octavius, with Mark Antony, Have made themselves so strong: (for with her

death Those tidings came) with this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.

Cas. And dy'd so?

Bru. Even so.

Cas. O ye immortal gods!

Enter Lucius, with Wine.

Bru. Speak no more of her ; give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius; [Drinks.

Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;

[Exit Lucius. I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.

Bru. Come in, good Casca. Come, Trebonius.

Enter Casca and Trebonius. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities.

Cos. O Portia! art thou gone?

Bru. No more, I pray you

Trebonius, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius, and Mark Antony,
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition tow'rd Philippi.

Tre. Myself have letters of the self-same tenor.

Bru. With what addition?

Tre. That by proscription, and bills of outlawry, Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus, Have put to death an hundred senators. . Cas. Cicero one?

Tre. Cicero is dead; and by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord ?

Bru. No, Trebonius.

Tre. Nor nothing in your letters writ of heri

Bru. Nothing, Trebonius. . Tre. That, methinks, is strange.

Bru. Why ask you? hear you aught of her, in. yours?

Tre. No, my lord.

Bru: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Tre. Then, like a Roman, bear the truth I tell; For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Bru. Why, farewell, Portia—we must die, Trebonius; With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now.

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