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Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm,
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm ?
You know, that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ?-
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me;
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself,
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say, you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.

Bru. Away, slight man !
Cas. Is't possible ?

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ?
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? Ay, more : Fret till your proud heart

Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
Y shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you ! for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say you are a better soldier :
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well : For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of abler men.

Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus ;
I said an elder soldier, not a better :
Did I say, better?

Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cæsar lived he durst not thus have moved


Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him.
Cas. I durst not?
Bru. No.
Cas. What! durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love :
I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats :
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.

I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;-
For I can raise no money by vile means :
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send

you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ;
Dash him to pieces !

Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not :-he was but a fool
That brought my answer back.—Brutus hath rived my

heart :
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius!
For Cassius is aweary of the world :
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother;
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 beest 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 loved'st him better
Than ever thou loved'st Cassius.

Bru. Sheath your dagger :
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ;
Who, much enforced, 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-temper'd, 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 love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour 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.


I ONE day in fancy stray'd,

O’er the land in sunny air,
Where sweet childhood ever play'd,

And where youth was ever fair.
And although I sometimes came

Where, by sin's all-blighting breath,
Much of life was touch'd for death,

And all marrd, as Eden charr'd
By leaping flame.
Yet all gay with glitt'ring lights,

Out as far as eyes could scan,
There were many touching sights

Of the many works of man.
There were road and bridgèd ford,

And the house to shield his head,
And the field he tillid for bread,

And the tall church tow’rs that call
Him to the Lord.
And as there I chanced to look

Where outreach'd some higher lands,
I beheld sweet Love who shook

A bright sieve in his two hands;
Though he did not look about,

For, with Wisdom at his side,
He was working, as in pride,

There to lift, and briskly sift,
A something out.

And his golden sieve, and all

It kept back, was dazzling bright,
And whate'er its wires let fall

Was windwafted out of sight;
For through Memory's sieve the boy,

On the wind of Time, that flows
As a windstream when it blows,

Sifts the sad, and all that's bad,
And keeps each joy.
Then beyond a swinging gate

On a waste of wilder lands,
Saw I everfrowning Hate

Shake a sieve in her dark hands;
And her looks were far from gay,

And with Folly at her side,
From the black sieve that she plied,

Something light, and dazzling bright,
Was swept away.
For the dismal sieve she had

Was the Mind that sifts amiss, Keeping back the sad and bad,

And outshedding ev'ry bliss.
While on ever-flowing Time,

As on wind outflies the chaff,
Fall and fly the joy and laugh,

Leaving in the thought of sin
And wrong and crime.
Since to Love and Hate, their meat

Is whiche'er they keep behind,
Love has soulfood ever sweet,

Hate has poison to the mind; So let me not sift amiss,

But by Wisdom still be taught To outsift each evil thought From the mind, and keep behind The food of bliss.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes deeds ill done!-Shakspeare.

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