Act IV, Scene I — Northampton. A Room in the Castle…

Act IV, Scene I — Northampton. A Room in the Castle

Enter Hubert and two Executioners.

HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair. Be heedful. Hence, and watch.

FIRST EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you; look to’t.

[Exeunt Executioners.]

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter Arthur.

ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert.

HUBERT. Good morrow, little prince.

ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

HUBERT. Indeed, I have been merrier.

ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I. Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me. He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey’s son? No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

HUBERT. [Aside.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead. Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with you. I warrant I love you more than you do me.

HUBERT. [Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper.]

[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.— Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

HUBERT. Young boy, I must.

ARTHUR. And will you?

HUBERT. And I will.

ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkercher about your brows, The best I had, a princess wrought it me, And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head, And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time, Saying ’What lack you?” and “Where lies your grief?” Or “What good love may I perform for you?” Many a poor man’s son would have lien still And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you?

HUBERT. I have sworn to do it. And with hot irons must I burn them out.

ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust, But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s.

HUBERT. [Stamps.] Come forth.

Enter Executioners with cords, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do.

ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to.

HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

FIRST EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt Executioners.]

ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours.

HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

ARTHUR. Is there no remedy?

HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes.

ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.

ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue. Let me not, Hubert, Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me.

HUBERT. I can heat it, boy.

ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us’d In undeserv’d extremes. See else yourself. There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.

HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compell’d to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office. Only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out.

ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while You were disguised.

HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead. I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee.

ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene II — The same. A Room of State in the Palace

Enter King John, crowned, Pembroke, Salisbury and other Lords. The King takes his State.

KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again crown’d, And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

PEMBROKE. This “once again,” but that your highness pleas’d, Was once superfluous. You were crown’d before, And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long’d-for change or better state.

SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

PEMBROKE. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.

SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured; And, like a shifted wind unto a sail, It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

SALISBURY. To this effect, before you were new-crown’d, We breath’d our counsel; but it pleas’d your highness To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d, Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess’d you with, and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform’d that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests.

PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request Th’ enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise? That the time’s enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your direction.

Enter Hubert.

Hubert, what news with you?

[Taking him apart.]

PEMBROKE. This is the man should do the bloody deed. He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine. The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast; And I do fearfully believe ’tis done What we so fear’d he had a charge to do.

SALISBURY. The colour of the King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.

KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceas’d tonight.

SALISBURY. Indeed, we fear’d his sickness was past cure.

PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer’d either here or hence.

KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life?

SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and ’tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game, and so, farewell.

PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury. I’ll go with thee And find th’ inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold. Bad world the while! This must not be thus borne; this will break out To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.

[Exeunt Lords.]

KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev’d by others’ death.

Enter a Messenger.

A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a storm. Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

MESSENGER. From France to England. Never such a power For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn’d by them; For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv’d.

KING JOHN. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it?

MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp’d with dust. The first of April died Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before. But this from rumour’s tongue I idly heard; if true or false I know not.

KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league with me, till I have pleas’d My discontented peers! What! Mother dead? How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those powers of France That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here?

MESSENGER. Under the Dauphin.

KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings.

Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret.

Now, what says the world To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is full.

BASTARD. But if you be afeard to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.

KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d Under the tide, but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The sums I have collected shall express. But as I travaill’d hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams, Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear. And here’s a prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your highness should deliver up your crown.

KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

PETER OF POMFRET. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

KING JOHN. Hubert, away with him; imprison him. And on that day at noon, whereon he says I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d. Deliver him to safety, and return, For I must use thee.

[Exit Hubert with Peter.]

O my gentle cousin, Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d?

BASTARD. The French, my lord. Men’s mouths are full of it. Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d tonight On your suggestion.

KING JOHN. Gentle kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will their loves again. Bring them before me.

BASTARD. I will seek them out.

KING JOHN. Nay, but make haste, the better foot before! O, let me have no subject enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again.

BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

[Exit Bastard.]

KING JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman! Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he.

MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege.

[Exit.]

KING JOHN. My mother dead!

Enter Hubert.

HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen tonight— Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion.

KING JOHN. Five moons!

HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously. Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths. And when they talk of him, they shake their heads And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent. Another lean unwash’d artificer Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death.

KING JOHN. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death? Thy hand hath murder’d him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me?

KING JOHN. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And, on the winking of authority To understand a law, to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis’d respect.

HUBERT. Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

KING JOHN. O, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, Quoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind. But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death; And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

HUBERT. My lord—

KING JOHN. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause When I spake darkly what I purpos’d, Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me. But thou didst understand me by my signs And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to act The deed which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me, and my state is brav’d, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers. Nay, in the body of the fleshly land, This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience and my cousin’s death.

HUBERT. Arm you against your other enemies, I’ll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter’d yet The dreadful motion of a murderous thought; And you have slander’d nature in my form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

KING JOHN. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage, And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not, but to my closet bring The angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene III — The same. Before the castle

Enter Arthur on the walls.

ARTHUR. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down. Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! There’s few or none do know me, If they did, This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me quite. I am afraid; and yet I’ll venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I’ll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to die and go, as die and stay.

[Leaps down.]

O me, my uncle’s spirit is in these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

[Dies.]

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury and Bigot.

SALISBURY. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury; It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.

PEMBROKE. Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

SALISBURY. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love Is much more general than these lines import.

BIGOT. Tomorrow morning let us meet him then.

SALISBURY. Or rather then set forward; for ’twill be Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet.

Enter the Bastard.

BASTARD. Once more today well met, distemper’d lords! The King by me requests your presence straight.

SALISBURY. The King hath dispossess’d himself of us. We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks. Return and tell him so. We know the worst.

BASTARD. Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.

SALISBURY. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

BASTARD. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.

PEMBROKE. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

BASTARD. ’Tis true, to hurt his master, no man’s else.

SALISBURY. This is the prison. What is he lies here?

[Seeing Arthur.]

PEMBROKE. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

SALISBURY. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

BIGOT. Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave.

SALISBURY. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld, Or have you read or heard, or could you think, Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? Could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder’s arms. This is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey’d wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

PEMBROKE. All murders past do stand excus’d in this. And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times; And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

BASTARD. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand.

SALISBURY. If that it be the work of any hand? We had a kind of light what would ensue. It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand, The practice and the purpose of the King, From whose obedience I forbid my soul, Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand, By giving it the worship of revenge.

PEMBROKE and BIGOT. Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Enter Hubert.

HUBERT. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live; the King hath sent for you.

SALISBURY. O, he is bold and blushes not at death. Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

HUBERT. I am no villain.

SALISBURY. Must I rob the law?

[Drawing his sword.]

BASTARD. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

SALISBURY. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.

HUBERT. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

BIGOT. Out, dunghill! Dar’st thou brave a nobleman?

HUBERT. Not for my life. But yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor.

SALISBURY. Thou art a murderer.

HUBERT. Do not prove me so. Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.

PEMBROKE. Cut him to pieces.

BASTARD. Keep the peace, I say.

SALISBURY. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.

BASTARD. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime, Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

BIGOT. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer?

HUBERT. Lord Bigot, I am none.

BIGOT. Who kill’d this prince?

HUBERT. ’Tis not an hour since I left him well. I honour’d him, I lov’d him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss.

SALISBURY. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor Th’ uncleanly savours of a slaughterhouse; For I am stifled with this smell of sin.

BIGOT. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!

PEMBROKE. There tell the King he may inquire us out.

[Exeunt Lords.]

BASTARD. Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn’d, Hubert.

HUBERT. Do but hear me, sir.

BASTARD. Ha! I’ll tell thee what; Thou’rt damn’d as black—nay, nothing is so black; Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer. There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

HUBERT. Upon my soul—

BASTARD. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up. I do suspect thee very grievously.

HUBERT. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me! I left him well.

BASTARD. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty, The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by th’ teeth The unow’d interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace. Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed. I’ll to the King. A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene I — Northampton. A Room in the Palace

Enter King John, Pandulph with the crown, and Attendants.

KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory.

PANDULPH. [Giving King John the crown.] Take again From this my hand, as holding of the pope, Your sovereign greatness and authority.

KING JOHN. Now keep your holy word. Go meet the French, And from his holiness use all your power To stop their marches ’fore we are inflam’d. Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemper’d humour Rests by you only to be qualified. Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick That present med’cine must be minist’red Or overthrow incurable ensues.

PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn usage of the pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your blust’ring land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms.

[Exit.]

KING JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet Say that before Ascension-day at noon My crown I should give off? Even so I have. I did suppose it should be on constraint; But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary.

Enter the Bastard.

BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded. Nothing there holds out But Dover Castle. London hath receiv’d, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy; And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends.

KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again After they heard young Arthur was alive?

BASTARD. They found him dead and cast into the streets, An empty casket, where the jewel of life By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away.

KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live.

BASTARD. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye. Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threat’ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror. So shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister like the god of war When he intendeth to become the field. Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there? And make him tremble there? O, let it not be said! Forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors, And grapple with him ere he come so nigh.

KING JOHN. The legate of the pope hath been with me, And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers Led by the Dauphin.

BASTARD. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms! Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace; Or if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence.

KING JOHN. Have thou the ordering of this present time.

BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage! Yet, I know Our party may well meet a prouder foe.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene II — Near Saint Edmundsbury. The French Camp

Enter, in arms, Louis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot and soldiers.

LOUIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out, And keep it safe for our remembrance. Return the precedent to these lords again; That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurg’d faith To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such is the infection of the time, That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends, That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger, march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies’ ranks? I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause, To grace the gentry of a land remote, And follow unacquainted colours here. What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

LOUIS. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz’d Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm. Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enrag’d, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Louis himself.—So, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. And even there, methinks, an angel spake.

Enter Pandulph.

Look, where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven, And on our actions set the name of right With holy breath.

PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this: King John hath reconcil’d Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy church, The great metropolis and see of Rome. Therefore thy threat’ning colours now wind up, And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion foster’d up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace And be no further harmful than in show.

LOUIS. Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back. I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself, And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome’s slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is’t not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out Vive le Roi! as I have bank’d their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game To win this easy match play’d for a crown? And shall I now give o’er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.

PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work.

LOUIS. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world, To outlook conquest and to win renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death.

[Trumpet sounds.]

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

Enter the Bastard, attended.

BASTARD. According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience; I am sent to speak, My holy lord of Milan, from the King I come to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue.

PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.

BASTARD. By all the blood that ever fury breath’d, The youth says well. Now hear our English king, For thus his royalty doth speak in me: He is prepar’d, and reason too he should. This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops, The King doth smile at; and is well prepar’d To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your door, To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, Thinking this voice an armed Englishman; Shall that victorious hand be feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No! Know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o’er his aery towers To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.— And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame! For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids Like Amazons come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination.

LOUIS. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a brabbler.

PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak.

BASTARD. No, I will speak.

LOUIS. We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war, Plead for our interest and our being here.

BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start And echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d That shall reverberate all as loud as thine. Sound but another, and another shall, As loud as thine, rattle the welkin’s ear And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder. For at hand, Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath us’d rather for sport than need, Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

LOUIS. Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

BASTARD. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene III — The same. The Field of Battle

Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert.

KING JOHN. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.

HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

KING JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge, Desires your majesty to leave the field And send him word by me which way you go.

KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.

MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply That was expected by the Dauphin here Are wrack’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands. This news was brought to Richard but even now. The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead. To my litter straight. Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene IV — The same. Another part of the same

Enter Salisbury, Pembroke and Bigot.

SALISBURY. I did not think the King so stor’d with friends.

PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in the French. If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

SALISBURY. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

PEMBROKE. They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.

Enter Melun wounded, and led by Soldiers.

MELUN. Lead me to the revolts of England here.

SALISBURY. When we were happy we had other names.

PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun.

SALISBURY. Wounded to death.

MELUN. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John and fall before his feet; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn, And I with him, and many more with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love.

SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true?

MELUN. Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit? Why should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here and live hence by truth? I say again, if Louis do win the day, He is forsworn if e’er those eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east. But even this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives, If Louis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert, with your king; The love of him, and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was an Englishman, Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul With contemplation and devout desires.

SALISBURY. We do believe thee, and beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d, And calmly run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to our great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye.—Away, my friends! New flight, And happy newness, that intends old right.

[Exeunt, leading off Melun.]

Act V, Scene V — The same. The French camp

Enter Louis and his train.

LOUIS. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set, But stay’d, and made the western welkin blush, When the English measure backward their own ground In faint retire. O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, After such bloody toil, we bid good night, And wound our tott’ring colours clearly up, Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

LOUIS. Here. What news?

MESSENGER. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall’n off, And your supply, which you have wish’d so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands.

LOUIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to be so sad tonight As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did fly an hour or two before The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

LOUIS. Well, keep good quarter and good care tonight. The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene VI — An open place in the neighborhood of Swinstead Abbey

Enter the Bastard and Hubert, meeting.

HUBERT. Who’s there? Speak, ho! Speak quickly, or I shoot.

BASTARD. A friend. What art thou?

HUBERT. Of the part of England.

BASTARD. Whither dost thou go?

HUBERT. What’s that to thee? Why may I not demand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

BASTARD. Hubert, I think.

HUBERT. Thou hast a perfect thought. I will, upon all hazards, well believe Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well. Who art thou?

BASTARD. Who thou wilt. And if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets.

HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! Thou and eyeless night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me, That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

BASTARD. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?

HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night, To find you out.

BASTARD. Brief, then; and what’s the news?

HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news. I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it.

HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison’d by a monk. I left him almost speechless, and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time, Than if you had at leisure known of this.

BASTARD. How did he take it? Who did taste to him?

HUBERT. A monk, I tell you, a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.

BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?

HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the King hath pardon’d them, And they are all about his majesty.

BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d. Away, before. Conduct me to the King; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene VII — The orchard of Swinstead Abbey

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury and Bigot.

PRINCE HENRY. It is too late. The life of all his blood Is touch’d corruptibly, and his pure brain, Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house, Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke.

PEMBROKE. His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

PRINCE HENRY. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage?

[Exit Bigot.]

PEMBROKE. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung.

PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest.

SALISBURY. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

Enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a chair.

KING JOHN. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom That all my bowels crumble up to dust. I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up.

PRINCE HENRY. How fares your majesty?

KING JOHN. Poison’d, ill fare; dead, forsook, cast off, And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course Through my burn’d bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much, I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait, And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

PRINCE HENRY. O, that there were some virtue in my tears That might relieve you!

KING JOHN. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confin’d to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard.

BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed to see your majesty!

KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye. The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair. My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty.

BASTARD. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where God He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my power, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood.

[The King dies.]

SALISBURY. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! My lord!—But now a king, now thus.

PRINCE HENRY. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay?

BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again, To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

SALISBURY. It seems you know not, then, so much as we. The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war.

BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

SALISBURY. Nay, ’tis in a manner done already, For many carriages he hath dispatch’d To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the cardinal, With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily.

BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble prince, With other princes that may best be spar’d, Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.

PRINCE HENRY. At Worcester must his body be interr’d; For so he will’d it.

BASTARD. Thither shall it, then, And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee, I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly.

SALISBURY. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore.

PRINCE HENRY. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks And knows not how to do it but with tears.

BASTARD. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.

[Exeunt.]

THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR

Dramatis Personæ

JULIUS CAESAR OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir after his death. MARCUS ANTONIUS, ” ” ” M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, ” ” ” CICERO, PUBLIUS, POPILIUS LENA, Senators. MARCUS BRUTUS, Conspirator against Caesar. CASSIUS, ” ” ” CASCA, ” ” ” TREBONIUS, ” ” ” LIGARIUS,” ” ” DECIUS BRUTUS, ” ” ” METELLUS CIMBER, ” ” ” CINNA, ” ” ” FLAVIUS, tribune MARULLUS, tribune ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos. 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 Caesar PORTIA, wife to Brutus

The Ghost of Caesar

Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants.

SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi.

Act I, Scene I — Rome. A street

Enter Flavius, Marullus and a throng of Citizens.

FLAVIUS. 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?

CARPENTER. Why, sir, a carpenter.

MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you?

COBBLER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

COBBLER. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

COBBLER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

MARULLUS. What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!

COBBLER. Why, sir, cobble you.

FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

COBBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal 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.

FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

COBBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

MARULLUS. 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 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 an 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 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.

FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[Exeunt Citizens.]

See whether 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.

MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’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 pluck’d from Caesar’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.]

Act I, Scene II — The same. A public place

Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.

CAESAR. Calphurnia.

CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

[Music ceases.]

CAESAR. Calphurnia.

CALPHURNIA. Here, my lord.

CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, When he doth run his course. Antonius.

ANTONY. Caesar, my lord?

CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.

ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d.

CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

[Music.]

SOOTHSAYER. Caesar!

CAESAR. Ha! Who calls?

CASCA. Bid every noise be still; peace yet again!

[Music ceases.]

CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music, Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear.

SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.

CAESAR. What man is that?

BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March.

CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face.

CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.

CAESAR. What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again.

SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.

CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass.

[Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius.]

CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course?

BRUTUS. Not I.

CASSIUS. I pray you, do.

BRUTUS. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I’ll leave you.

CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.

BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved (Among which number, Cassius, be you one) Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing.

CASSIUS. ’Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome, (Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.

BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus: Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

[Flourish and shout.]

BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king.

CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so.

BRUTUS. 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.

CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 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 Caesar; 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 her shores, Caesar 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, Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!” I, as Aeneas, 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 Caesar. And this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar 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 his 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.

[Shout. Flourish.]

BRUTUS. Another general shout? I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar.

CASSIUS. 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 graves. 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 “Caesar”: what should be in that “Caesar”? 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 ’em, “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.” Now in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar 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? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king!

BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter. For this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov’d. What you have said, 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 these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us.

CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.

Enter Caesar and his Train.

BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning.

CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today.

BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross’d in conference by some senators.

CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is.

CAESAR. Antonius.

ANTONY. Caesar?

CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given.

CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be mov’d to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.

[Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.]

CASCA. You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?

BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanc’d today, That Caesar looks so sad.

CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not?

BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d.

CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer’d him; and being offer’d him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.

BRUTUS. What was the second noise for?

CASCA. Why, for that too.

CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?

CASCA. Why, for that too.

BRUTUS. Was the crown offer’d him thrice?

CASCA. Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted.

CASSIUS. Who offer’d him the crown?

CASCA. Why, Antony.

BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.

CASCA. I can as well be hang’d, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refus’d it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp’d their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had, almost, choked Caesar, for he swooned, and fell down at it. And for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.

CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon?

CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and was speechless.

BRUTUS. ’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness.

CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.

CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man.

BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself?

CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck’d me ope his doublet, and offer’d them his throat to cut. And I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desir’d their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, “Alas, good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts. But there’s no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb’d their mothers, they would have done no less.

BRUTUS. And, after that, he came thus sad away?

CASCA. Ay.

CASSIUS. Did Cicero say anything?

CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek.

CASSIUS. To what effect?

CASCA. Nay, and I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again. But those that understood him smil’d at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.

CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca?

CASCA. No, I am promis’d forth.

CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow?

CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating.

CASSIUS. Good. I will expect you.

CASCA. Do so; farewell both.

[Exit Casca.]

BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school.

CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you.

CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.

[Exit Brutus.]

Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. And after this, let Caesar seat him sure, For we will shake him, or worse days endure.

[Exit.]

Act I, Scene III — The same. A street

Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword drawn, and Cicero.

CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so?

CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction.

CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful?

CASCA. A common slave, you’d know him well by sight, Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire remain’d unscorch’d. Besides, I ha’ not since put up my sword, Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, “These are their reasons; they are natural”; For I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon.

CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow?

CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there tomorrow.

CICERO. Goodnight then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in.

CASCA. Farewell, Cicero.

[Exit Cicero.]

Enter Cassius.

CASSIUS. Who’s there?

CASCA. A Roman.

CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice.

CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!

CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men.

CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so?

CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk’d about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it.

CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us.

CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca; and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, To monstrous quality; why, you shall find That Heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself, or me, In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.

CASCA. ’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?

CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

CASCA. Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place, save here in Italy.

CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure.

[Thunder still.]

CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity.

CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm’d, And dangers are to me indifferent.

CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest.

CASSIUS. There’s a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honourable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey’s Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element In favour’s like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible.

Enter Cinna.

CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste.

CASSIUS. ’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so?

CINNA. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?

CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna?

CINNA. I am glad on’t. What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.

CASSIUS. Am I not stay’d for? tell me.

CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party—

CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey’s Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?

CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, And so bestow these papers as you bade me.

CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.

[Exit Cinna.]

Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter, yields him ours.

CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts! And that which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness.

CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene I — Rome. Brutus’ orchard

Enter Brutus.

BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius!

Enter Lucius.

LUCIUS. Call’d you, my lord?

BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here.

LUCIUS. I will, my lord.

[Exit.]

BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown’d: How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell.

Enter Lucius.

LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed.

[Gives him the letter.]

BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?

LUCIUS. I know not, sir.

BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word.

LUCIUS. I will, sir.

[Exit.]

BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.

[Opens the letter and reads.]

_Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!_ “Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!” Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress!” Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus.

Enter Lucius.

LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.

[Knock within.]

BRUTUS. ’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.

[Exit Lucius.]

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

Enter Lucius.

LUCIUS. Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you.

BRUTUS. Is he alone?

LUCIUS. No, sir, there are moe with him.

BRUTUS. Do you know them?

LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour.

BRUTUS. Let ’em enter.

[Exit Lucius.]

They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.

Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber and Trebonius.

CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?

CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honours you; and everyone doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius.

BRUTUS. He is welcome hither.

CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus.

BRUTUS. He is welcome too.

CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.

BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night?

CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word?

[They whisper.]

DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

CASCA. No.

CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.

CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one.

CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution.

BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag’d, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him.

CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.

CASCA. Let us not leave him out.

CINNA. No, by no means.

METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgement rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity.

BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow anything That other men begin.

CASSIUS. Then leave him out.

CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit.

DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?

CASSIUS. Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all; which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.

BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off.

CASSIUS. Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—

BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company.

TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.

[Clock strikes.]

BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock.

CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three.

TREBONIUS. ’Tis time to part.

CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol today.

DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.

CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.

BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.

METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him.

BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.

CASSIUS. The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone.

[Exeunt all but Brutus.]

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

Enter Portia.

PORTIA. Brutus, my lord.

BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all.

PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.

BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.

PORTIA. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, your self, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia.

PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I your self But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.

BRUTUS. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.

PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband’s secrets?

BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife!

[Knock.]

Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.

[Exit Portia.]

Enter Lucius with Ligarius.

Lucius, who’s that knocks?

LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you.

BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?

LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.

BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!

LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick?

BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done.

LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on.

[Thunder.]

BRUTUS. Follow me then.

[Exeunt.]