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Mark Antony, so well beloved of Cæsar,
Should outlive Cæsar: We shall find of him
A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,
If he improve them, may well stretch so far
As to annoy us all: which to prevent,

Let Antony and Cæsar fall together.
187. Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,

To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs,
Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards :
For Antony is but a limb of Cæsar.
Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.
We all stand up against the spirit of Cæsar;
And in the spirit of men there is no blood :
O, that we then could come by Cæsar's spirit,
And not dismember Cæsar! But, alas,
Cæsar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends,
Lets kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;
Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do,
Stir up their servants to an act of rage,
And after seem to chide 'em. This shall mark
Our purpose necessary, and not envious :
Which so appearing to the common eyes,
We shall be called purgers, not murderers.
And for Mark Antony, think not of him;
For he can do no more than Cæsar's arm

When Cæsar's head is off. 188. Cas. Yet I do fear him.

For in the ingrafted love he bears to Cæsar,-
189. Bru. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him :

If he love Cæsar, all that he can do
Is to himself, take thought, and die for Cæsar:
And that were much he should; for he is given

To sports, to wildness, and much company. 190. Treb. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [Clock strikes.

Bru. Peace, count the clock. 192. Cas. The clock hath stricken three.

Treb. 'Tis time to part. . 194. Cas. But it is doubtful yet

Whether Cæsar will come forth to-day or no:
For he is superstitious grown of late;

Quite from the main opinion he held once
Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies;
It

may be, these apparent prodigies,
The unaccustomed terror of this night,
And the persuasion of his augurers,

May hold him from the Capitol to-day.
195. Dec. Never fear that: If he be so resolved,

I can o'ersway him: for he loves to hear
That unicorns may be betrayed with trees,
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers;
But, when I tell him he hates flatterers,
He

says he does; being then most flattered.
Let me work:
For I can give his humour the true bent;
And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. 197. Bru. By the eighth hour: Is that the uttermost?

Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. 199. Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Cæsar hard,

Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey;

I wonder none of you have thought of him. 200. Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him:

He loves me well, and I have given him reasons;

Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. 201. Cas. The morning comes upon us : We'll leave you, Brutus :

And, friends, disperse yourselves: but all remember

What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. 202. Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;

Let not our looks put on our purposes :
But bear it as our Roman actors do,
With untired spirits, and formal constancy:
And so, good morrow to you every one.

[Exeunt all but BRUTUS.
Boy! Lucius ! Fast asleep? It is no matter ;
Enjoy the heavy honey-dew of slumber :
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

Enter PORTIA.
Por. Brutus, my lord !

Bru. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now?
It is not for your health, thus to commit

Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. 205. Por. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus,

Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walked about,
Musing, and sighing, with your arms across :
And, when I asked you what the matter was,
You stared upon me with ungentle looks:
I urged you further; then

you scratched your head, And too impatiently stamped with your

foot: Yet I insisted, yet you answered not; But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did; Fearing to strengthen that impatience, Which seemed too much enkindled; and, withal, Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And, could it work so much upon your shape, As it hath much prevailed on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

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 means to come by it.

Brue. Why, so I do.-Good Portia, go to bed. 209. Por. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical

To walk unbraced, and suck-up the humours
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick;
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night?
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air
To add unto his sickness ? No, my Brutus;
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: And, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow,
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Why you are heavy; and what men to-night
Have had resort to you: for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.

Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia.
211. Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Iş it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort, or limitation;
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk 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 dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.
213. Por. If this were true, then should I know this secret.

I grant, I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman that lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant, I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well reputed; Cato's daughter.
Think

you, I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so fathered, and so husbanded?
Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em:
I have made strong proof of my constancy,
Giving myself a voluntary wound
Here, in the thigh: Can I bear that with patience,

And not my husband's secrets ?
214. Bru. O ye gods,
Render me thy of this noble wife!

[Knocking within.
Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in a while;
And by and by thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart.
All my engagements I will construe to thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows :-
Leave me with haste.

[Exit PORTIA.
Enter LUCIUS and LIGARIUS.
Lucius, who's that, knocks ?

Luc. Here is a sick man, that would speak with you.

Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius ! how ? 217. Lig. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. 218. Bru. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,

To wear a kerchief? Would you were not sick!

Lig. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand

Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
221. Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before

I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome!
Brave son, derived from honourable loins!
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible ,
Yea, get the better of them. What's to do?

Bru. A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

Lig. But are not some whole, that we must make sick ? 224. 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. 225. Lig. Set on your foot;

And, with a heart new-fired, I follow you,
To do I know not what : but it suficeth,
That Brutus leads me on.
Bru. Follow me then.

[Exeunt.

Scene I. - The heading here in the Folios (in which there is no division into Scenes), is merelyEnter Brutus in his Orchard." Assuming that Brutus was probably not possessed of what we now call distinctively an orchard (which may have been the case), the modern editors of the earlier part of the last century took upon them to change Orchard into Garden. But this is to carry the work of rectification (even if we should admit it to be such) beyond what is warrantable. To deprive Brutus in this way of his orchard was to mutilate or alter Shakespeare's conception. It is probable that the words Orchard and Garden were commonly understood in the early part of the seventeenth century in the senses which they now bear; but there is nothing in their etymology to support the manner in which they have come to be distinguished. In Much Ado About Nothing, ii. 3, although the scene is headedLeonato's Garden," Benedick, sending the Boy for a book from his chamber-window,

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