JULIUS

CÆSA R.

A 2

SCENE, for the three firft A&ts, at Rome, afterwards at an Ile near Mutina; at Sardis; and Philippi.

JULIUS CÆSAR.

ACT I.

SCENE, a Street in Rome,

Enter Flavius, (1) Marullus, and certain Commoners.

H

FLAVIU S.

ENCE; home, you idle creatures, get
you home;

Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day, without the fign
Of your profeffion? fpeak, what trade
art thou?

Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What doft thou with thy beft apparel on?

You, Sir,-What trade are you?

Cob. Truly, Sir, in refpect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would fay, a cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? answer me directly. Cob. A trade, Sir, that, I hope, I may use with a fafe confcience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

(1) Murellus,] I have, upon the Authority of Plutarch, &c. given this Tribune, his right Name, Marullus. A 3

Flav.

Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

Cob. Nay, I befeech you, Sir, be not out with me: yet if you be out, Sir, I can mend you.

(2) Flav. What mean'ft thou by that? mend me, thou faucy fellow?

Cob. Why, Sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

Cob. Truly, Sir, all, that I live by, is the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters; but with-all, I am, indeed, Sir, a furgeon to old fhoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neats-leather have gone upon my handy-work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to-day? Why doft thou lead these men about the streets?

Cob. Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get myfelf into more work. But, indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee Cafar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice!-what conqueft brings he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?

You blocks, you ftones, you worfe than senseless things!
you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome?
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms; and there have fate
The live-long day with patient expectation,
To fee great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you faw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an univerfal fhout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your founds,
Made in his concave shores?

(2) Mar. What mean'f thou by that ?] As the Cobler, in the preceding Speech, replies to Flavius, not to Marullus; 'tis plain, I think, this Speech must be given to Flavius.

And

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out an holiday?
And do you now ftrew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?
Be gone-

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the Gods, to intermit the plague,
That needs muft light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault Affemble all the poor men of your fort;

Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, 'till the lowest stream
Do kifs the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners.
See, whe're their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way tow'rds the Capitol,
This way
will I; difrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do fo?

You know, it is the feaft of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter, let no images
Be hung with Cafar's trophies; I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the street:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
Thefe growing feathers, pluckt from Cafar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;

Who else would foar above the view of men,
And keep us all in fervile fearfulness. [Exeunt feverally.
Enter Cæfar, Antony, for the Courfe, Calphurnia, Por-
cia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Cafca, a Sooth-
Sayer.

Caf. Calphurnia,

Cafe. Peace, ho! Cæfar fpeaks.

Caf. Calphurnia,

Calp. Here, my lord.

Caf. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his Courfe- Antonius,

Ant. Cæfar, my lord.

A 4

Caf.