Bru.

For your life you Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

should be sorry for.

I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
For I am arm'd so strong 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 denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means:

By heaven, 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 denied 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.

Bru. You did.
Cas.

I denied you not.

I did not: he was but a fool,

durst not.

That brought my answer back.
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Brutus hath riv'd my heart:

Bru.

I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear

As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother;

Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O! I could weep

There is my dagger,

My spirit from mine eyes.
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 denied thee gold will give my heart.
Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; 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.

Cas.

Bru.

O Brutus !

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. [Noise within.

Poet. [Within.] Let me go in to see the generals.

There is some grudge between them; 't is not meet
They be alone.

Luc. [Within.] You shall not come to them.
Poet. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.

Poet. For shame, you generals! What do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be;
For I have seen more years, I am sure, than ye.

Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme.
Bru. Get you hence, sirrah: saucy fellow, hence.
Cas. Bear with him, Brutus; 't is his fashion.
Bru. I'll know his humour, when he knows his time.
What should the wars do with these jigging fools?
Companion, hence.

Cas.

Away, away! be gone.

Enter LUCILIUS and TITINIUS.

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders

Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.

[Exit Poet.

Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you, Immediately to us.

Bru.

[Exeunt LUCILIUS and TITINIUS.

Lucius, a bowl of wine.

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

That tidings came.

With this she fell distract,

And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.

Cas.

And died so?

Bru. Even so.

Cas. O, ye immortal gods!

Enter LUCIUS, with Wine and Tapers.

Bru. Speak no more of her. - Give me a bowl of wine:

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

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

I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.

Re-enter TITINIUS, with MESSALA.

[Drinks.

[Drinks.

Welcome, good Messala.

No more, I pray you.

Bru. Come in, Titinius.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.
Cas. Portia, art thou gone?
Bru.
Messala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius, and Mark Antony,
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

Mes. Myself have letters of the self-same tenour.
Bru. With what addition?

Mes. That by proscription, and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree:

Mine speak of seventy senators, that died

By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.
Cas. Cicero one?

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Bru. No, Messala.

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Bru. Nothing, Messala.

Mes.

That, methinks, is strange.

Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

Mes. No, my lord.

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.
Mes. 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, Messala: With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.

Cas. I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently?

Cas. I do not think it good.

Bru.

Cas.

Your reason?

This it is.

'Tis better, that the enemy seek us:

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,
Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still,

Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better. The people, 'twixt Philippi and this ground,

Do stand but in a forc'd affection;

For they have grudg'd us contribution:
The enemy, marching along by them,
By them shall make a fuller number up,

Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encourag'd;
From which advantage shall we cut him off,

If at Philippi we do face him there,

These people at our back.

Cas.

Hear me, good brother.

Bru. Under your pardon. You must note beside,

That we have tried the utmost of our friends.

Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe :

The enemy increaseth every day;

We, at the height, are ready to decline.

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;