« 上一頁繼續 »
M. Emil. Lepidus,
Cicero, Publius, Popilius Lena; senators.
triumvirs, after the death
of Julius Cæsar.
conspirators against Julius
Flavius and Marullus, tribunes.
Cinna, a poet.
Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, young Cato, and Volumnius; friends to Brutus and Cassius.
Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardanius;
servants to Brutus.
Pindarus, servant to Cassius.
Calphurnia, wife to Casar.
Portia, wife to Brutus.
Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c.
Scene, during a great part of the play, at Rome : afterwards at Sardis; and near Philippi.
SCENE I. Rome. A street.
Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a rabble of Citizens.
HENCE; home, you idle creatures, get you
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,
Of your profession?-Speak, what trade art thou? 1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.
Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on ?You, sir; what trade are you?
2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me di
2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soals.
Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, I can mend you.
Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?
2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.
Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather, have gone upon my handy
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort*;
You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.
Who else would soar above the view of men,
Honorary ornaments; tokens of respect.