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Mes. Mistrust of good success hath done this
O hateful error, melancholy's child!
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men, The things that are not? O error, soon conceiv'd, Thou never com'st unto a happy birth,
But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee.
Tit. What, Pindarus! Where art thou, Pindarus? Mes. Seek him, Titinius: whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears: I may say, thrusting it; For piercing steel, and darts envenomed, Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus, As tidings of this sight.
Hie you, Messala,
And I will seek for Pindarus the while.
[Exit Messala. Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?
Did I not meet thy friends? and did not they
And bid me give 't thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts ?
Alas, thou hast misconstrued every thing.
But hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I
Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius.
Bru. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? Mes. Lo, yonder; and Titinius mourning it. Bru. Titinius' face is upward.
He is slain.
Bru. O Julius Cæsar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords
Bru. Are yet two Romans living such as these?The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
It is impossible, that ever Rome
Should breed thy fellow.-Friends, I owe more tears
Lest it discomfort us.-Lucilius, come;-
Another part of the field.
Alarum. Enter fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Cato, Lucilius, and others.
Bru. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads!
Cato. What bastard doth not? Who will go with
I will proclaim my name about the field:
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend;
[Charges the enemy.
Bru. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus. [Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls.
Luc. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius; And may'st be honour'd, being Cato's son. 1 Sold. Yield, or thou diest.
Only I yield to die:
Luc. There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight;
Kill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death.
1 Sold. We must not.-A noble prisoner!
2 Sold. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en. 1 Sold. I'll tell the news.-Here comes the gene
Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord,
Ant. Where is he?
Luc. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough: I dare assure thee, that no enemy
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:
The gods defend him from so great a shame!
He will be found like Brutus, like himself.
Ant. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure
A prize no less in worth: keep this man safe,
Another part of the field.
Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius.
Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
Cli. Statilius show'd the torch-light; but, my lord, He came not back; he is or ta'en, or slain.
Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus: Slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.—
Cli. What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
I'll rather kill myself.
Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius!
Cli. O, Dardanius!
Dar. O, Clitus!
I do such a deed?
Cli. What ill request did Brutus make to thee? Dar. To kill him, Clitus: Look, he meditates. Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.
Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius: list a word. Vol. What says my lord?
Why, this, Volumnius :
The ghost of Cæsar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night: at Sardis, once;
Not so, my lord.
Bru. Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.
Thou see'st the world, Volumnius, how it goes;
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves,
Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;
So, fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue
Hath almost ended his life's history:
Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour'd to attain this hour.
[Alarum. Cry within, Fly, fly, fly. Cli. Fly, my lord, fly.
Hence; I will follow thee.
[Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius.
I pr'ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:
Bru. Farewell, good Strato.-Cæsar, now be still: I kill'd not thee with half so good a will.
[He runs on his sword and dies.
Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony,
Messala, Lucilius, and their Army.
Oct. What man is that?