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Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes!-There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine,-richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius !

Bru. Sheathe your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius! you are yokéd with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire :
Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived.

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

Bru. And my heart, too.

Cas. O Brutus !

Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not long enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

[Shakspeare.

THE TRIUMPH OF JULIUS CÆSAR. ·

FLAVIUS MARULLUS

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 laboring 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. Mar. What trade, thou knave; thou naughty knave, what trade?

if

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, be out, sir, I can mend you.

you

Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

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2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor woman's matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather, have gone upon my handiwork. 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 climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong 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 a universal shout,
That Tiber 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 call out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Begone;

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

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

Draw them to Tiber's banks, and weep your tears

Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. (Exeunt Citizens.)

See, where'er their basest metal be not moved,

They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.

Go you down that way toward the capitol;
This way will I; disrobe the images,

If you do find them decked 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.
These growing feathers plucked 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.

[Shakspeare.

PART V.

DIALOGUES-COMIC.

PASSION FOR ARGUMENT.

SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE, HUMPHREY DOBBINS AND FREDERICK.

Sir Robert Bramble. I tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there isn't a syllable of sense in all you have been saying; but, I suppose, you will maintain that there is?

Humphrey Dobbins. Yes.

Sir. R. Yes! Is that the way you talk to me, you old boar? What's my name?

Dob. Robert Bramble.

Sir. R. Ar'n't I a baronet,

Sir Robert Bramble, of

Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'Tis time you should know it; for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet-de-chambre these thirty years. Can you deny that? Dob. Umph!

Sir. R. Umph! What do you mean by umph? Open the rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Dob. Because, if I contradicted you there, I should tell a lie; and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.

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