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SCENE, for the three firft Acts, at Rome: afterwar des at an Ifle near Mutina ; at Sardis; and Philippi.
A C T I.
SCENE, a Street in ROME.
Enter Flavius, (1) Marullus, and certain Commoners.
ENCE; home, you idle creatures, get you
Is this a holiday? what! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day, without the fign Of your profeffion? Speak, what trade art thou ? Car. Why, Sir, à 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 safe confcience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals. (1) Murellus.] I have, upon the authority of Plutarch, &c. given to this Tribune, kis right name, Marullas.
Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
Cob. Nay, I beseech 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 tradefman'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 on neats-leather, have gone upon my handy-work.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop 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
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
And do you now put on your best attire ?
(2) Mar. What mean'st thou by that?] As the Cobler, in the preceding speech, replies to Flavius, not to Marullus; 'tis plain, I think, this fpeech must be given to Flavius,
And do you now cull out an holiday?
Run to your houfes, fall upon your knees,
Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
Flav. It is no matter, let no images
Who else would foar above the view of men,
And keep us all in fervile fearfulness.
Enter Cæfar, Antony for the Course, Calphurnia, Porcia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Cafca, a Soothsayer. Caf. Calphurnia,
Cafe. Peace, ho! Cæfar speaks.
Calp. Here, my Lord.
Caf. Stand you directly in Antonius' way,
When he doth run his course
Ant. Cæfar, my Lord.
Caf. Forget not in your fpeed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our Elders fay,