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Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear the
people Choose Cæsar for their king., Cas. Ay, do you
Then must I think you would not have it so.
Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well:
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ?
What is it that you would impart to me?
If it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye, and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently;
For, let the gods so speed me, as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.
Cas. I know that virtue to be in
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour is the subject of my story-
I cannot tell, what you and other men
Think of this life, but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cæsar; so were you :
We both have fed as well: and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he;
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Cæsar said to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point ? Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,
And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roar'd; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews; throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy;
But ere we could arrive the point propos'd,
Cæsar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.
I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man
Is now become a god : and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body,
If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake!
His coward lips did from their colour fly;
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre: I did hear him groan.
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried, Give me some drink, Titinius,
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.
Bru. Another general shout: (Shout again.)
I do believe that these applauses are
For some new honours that are heap'd on Cæsar.
Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep
about To find ourselves dishonourable graveś. Men at some time are masters of their fates : The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Cæsar: what should be in that Cæsar ? Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed,
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was fam'd with more than with one man ?
When could they say, 'till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man?
0! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to have kept his state in Rome,
As easily as a king:
Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous : What
would work me to, I have some aim;
How I have thought of this, and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter; for the present,
I would not, so with love I might entreat you,
Be any further moved: what
I will consider : what you have to say,
I will with patience hear, and find a time
Both meet to hear, and answer, such high things.
'Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this;
Brutus had rather be a villager,
Than to repute himself a son of Rome,
Under such hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.
Cas. I am glad that
weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
ALONE to the banks of the dark rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er;
O whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my lover;
Or here dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore ?
What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sighed ! All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By light of the
Wounded Hussar ! From his bosom that heav'd the last torrent was
streaming, And pale was his visage deep mark'd with a scar; And dim was his eye once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your Wounded Hussar ? Thou shalt live, she replied ; Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn! Ah! no, the last
my bosom is heaving ! No light of the morn shall to Henry return! Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar ! His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms -the poor Wounded Hussar.
-REASON thus with life If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, (Servile to all the skyey influences) That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by the flight to shun, • And yet runn'st toward him still: Thou art not noble ;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nursed by baseness : Thou art by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust : Happy thou art not:
For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get;
And, what thou hast, forgett'st: Thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon: If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: Friend hast thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner; Thou hast nor youth nor
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld: and when thou art old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this,
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.