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That this shall be, or we will fall for it?
Nor the unsuppressive mettle of our spirits,
If he do break the smallest particle
Of any promise that hath pass'd from him.
Cas. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him?
I think, he will stand very strong with us.
Cin. No, by no means.
Met. O let us have him; for his silver hairs
And buy men's voices to commend our deeds:
Bru. O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing
That other men begin.
Cas. Then leave him out.
Casca. Indeed, he is not fit.
Dec. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Cæsar ? Cas. Decius, well urg'd:-I think it is not meet,
Mark Antony, so well belov'd of Cæsar,
Should outlive Cæsar: We shall find of him
A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,
If he improves them, may well stretch so far,
Let Antony, and Cæsar, fall together.
Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,
To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs ;
Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers, Caius.
Cas. Yet I do fear him:
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Cæsar,-
Is to himself; take thought, and die for Cæsar:
And that were much he should; for he is given
Treb. There is no more in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.
Bru. Peace, count the clock.
Cas. The clock hath stricken three.
Treb. 'Tis time to part.
Cas. But it is doubtful yet,
Whe'r Cæsar will come forth to-day, or no :
For I can give his humour the true bent;
Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
I wonder, none of you have thought of him.
Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him.
Cas. The morning comes upon us: We'll leave you, Brutus:
And, friends, disperse yourselves: but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Ro
Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes;
But bear it as our Roman actors do,
With untir'd spirits, and formal constancy :
[Exeunt all but BRUTUS.
Boy! Lucius !-Fast asleep? It is no matter;
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Por. Brutus, my lord!
Bru. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now?
It is not for your health, thus to commit
Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning.
Por. Nor for yours neither. You have ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at supper,
You suddenly arose, and walk'd about,
Musing, and sighing, with your arms across:
And when I ask'd you what the matter was,
I urg'd you further; then you scratch'd your head,
But with an angry wafture of your hand,
Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all. Por. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.
Bru. Why, so I do :-Good Portia, go to bed. Por. Is Brutus sick? and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick; And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night? And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow