Enter a Soldier.

Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead;
Entomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea:
And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
Interprets for my poor ignorance.

Alcib. [Reads.] "Here lies a wretched corse of wretched soul bereft:

Seek not my name. A plague consume you wicked caitiffs left!

Here lie I Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:

Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy gait.” These well express in thee thy latter spirits:

Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs,

Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which

From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit

Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye

On thy low grave on faults forgiven. Dead
Is noble Timon; of whose memory

Hereafter more. Bring me into your city,
And I will use the olive with my sword:

Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each
Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. -

Let our drums strike.

[Exeunt.

CINNA,

Senators

Conspirators against Julius Cæ

sar.

ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cni

dos.

A Soothsayer.

CINNA, a Poet. Another Poet.
LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSA-
LA, young CATO, and VOLUM-
NIUS; Friends to Brutus and
Cassius.

VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS,
STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDA-
NIUS; Servants to Brutus.
PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius.

FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, Tri- CALPHURNIA, Wife to Cæsar.

bunes.

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.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Rome. A Street.

Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and a body of Citizens.
Flav. Hence! 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 sign

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 directly.

2 Cit. A trade, Sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad soles.

Flav. 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, Sir, I can mend you.

Mar. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

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 all. I am, indeed, Sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neatsleather have gone upon my handywork.

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 he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O! 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 sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome :
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?

And do you now strew 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 must light on this ingratitude.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen; and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort:

Draw them to Tyber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol:
This way will I. Disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do so?

You know, it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.

[Exeunt Citizens.

These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,

Who else would soar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

[Exeunt.