A Soothsayer.

Cinna, a Poet. Another Poet.

Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, young Cato, and Volumnius; Friends to Brutus and Cassius.

Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardanius;

Servants to Brutus.

Pindarus, Servant to Cassius.

Calphurnia, Wife to Cæsar.
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.

Fuseli Del

C Warren step

t

Br. Why com'st-thou?
Ghost. To tell thee, thou shalt see me at Phillippi.

Publish'd by F& C Rivington London May 6-1804.

2

JULIUS CÆSAR.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Rome. A Street.

Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and a Rabble 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 cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me di

rectly.

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

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

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

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 awl. 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 neats-leather, 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,