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Printed in the YEAR 1709.
Ligarius, Conspirators against Julius
Decius Brutus, Cæfar.
Artimedorus, a Sooth-sayer.
Cinna, the Poet.
Lucius, Servant to Brutus.
} Friends to Brutus and Caffius.
Calphurnia, Wife to Cæsar.
Portia, Wife to Brutus.
Plebeians, Guards and Attendants.
SCENE for the three forft Aits and be
ginning of the Fourth in Rome, for the remainder of the Fourth near Sardis, for the Fifth in the Fields of Philippi.
S CE NE Rome. Enter Flavius, Murellus, and certain Commoners
over the Stage.
ENCE; Home you idle Creatures, get you
Is this a Holy-day? What, know you not,
Being Mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring Day, without the Sign
Of your Profeflion? Speak, whatTrade art thous
Car. Why Sir; a Carpenter.
Mur. Where is thy Leather Apron, and thy Rule?
What dost thou with thy best Apparel on ?
You Sir, what Trade are you?
Cob. Truly Sir, in respect of a fine Workman, I am but as you say would say, a Cobler.
Mur. But what Trade art thou ? answer me dire&ly.
Cob. A Trade, Sir, that I hope I may use with a safe Conscience, which is indeed, Sir, a mender of bad Soals.
Flav. What Trade, thou Knave? thou naughty Knave, what Trade?
Cob. Nay, I befeech you Sir, be not out with me; yet if
you be out Sir, I can mend you.
Mur. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou fawcy Fellow?
Cob. Why, Sir, Cobble you.
Flav. Thou art a Cobler, art thou }
Cob. Truly Sir, all that I live by, is the Awl: I meddle with no Tradesman's Matters, nor Woman's Matters ; but withal, I am indeed, Sir, a Surgeon to old Shooes ; when they are in great Danger, I recover them. As proper Men as ever trod upon Neats-Leather, have gone upon my handy work.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy Shop to Day? Why dost thou lead these Men about the Streets?
Cob. Truly Sir, to wear out their Shooes, to get my self into more work. But indeed Sir, we make Holy-day to see Cæfar, and to rejoyce in his Triumph. Mur. Wherefore rejoyce? What Conquest brings
What Tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in Captive Bonds his Chariot Wheels ?
You Blocks, you Stones, you worse than senseless Things!
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 fate
The live-long Day with patient Expeợation,
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 his Banks
To hear the Replication of your Sounds,
Made in his Concave Shores?
And do you now put on your best Attire ?
And do you now cull out an Holy-day?
Aed do you now strew Flowers in his way,
That comes in Triumph over Pompey's Blcod?
* Run to your Houses, fall upon your Knees,
Pray to the Gods, to intermit the Plague,
That needs must light on this Ingratitude.
Flav. Go, go, good Countrymen, and for this Fault
Assemble all the poor Men of your sort;
Draw them to Tyber Bank, and weep your Tears
Into the Channel, 'till the lowest Stream
Do kiss the most exalted Shores of all. (Exennt Commoners.
See where their baseft Mettle be not mov'd,
They vanish tongue-ty'd in their Guiltiness.
you down that way towards the Capitol,
will I ; Disrobe the Images, If you
do find them deck'd with Ceremonies.
Mur. May we do fo?
You know it is the Feast of Lupercal.
Flav. It is no matter, let no Images
Be hung with Cafar'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 pluckt from Gafar's Wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary Pitch,
Who else would foar above the view of Men,
And keep us all in servile Fearfulness.
(Exeunt: Enter Cæsar, Antony for the Course, Calphurnia, Portia,
Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Callius, Caska, a Soothfajer ;
after them Murellus and Flavius.
Cask. Peace ho, Cæfar speaks.
Calp. Here, my Lord.
Caf. Stand you dire&ly in Antonio's way,
When he doth run his Course. Antonio.
Ant. Cafar, my Lord.
Caf. Forget not in your speed, Antonio.
To touch Čalphurnia ; for our Elders say,
The Barren touched in this holy Chase,
Shake off their steril Curse.
Ant. I shall remember.
When Cafar says, Do this; it is perform’d.
Caf. Set on, and leave no Ceremony out.
Caf. Ha! Who calls ?
Cask. Bid every Noise be still; Peace yet again.
Caf. Who is it in the Press that calls on me
I hear a Tongue, fhriller than all the Musick,
Cry, Cafar: Speak; Cefar is turn'd to hear.
Sooth. Beware the Ides of March.
Cali What Man is that 3