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SCENE, for the three firft A&ts, at Rome, afterwards at an Ile near Mutina; at Sardis; and Philippi.
SCENE, a Street in Rome,
Enter Flavius, (1) Marullus, and certain Commoners.
ENCE; home, you idle creatures, get
Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
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. 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!
(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 do you now put on your best attire?
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
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
You know, it is the feaft of Lupercal.
Flav. It is no matter, let no images
Who else would foar above the view of men,
Cafe. Peace, ho! Cæfar fpeaks.
Calp. Here, my lord.
Caf. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his Courfe- Antonius,
Ant. Cæfar, my lord.