LITMIR.BIZ

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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 laboring day without the sign

       Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

       FIRST CITIZEN.

       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?

       SECOND CITIZEN. 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.

       SECOND CITIZEN. 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?

       SECOND CITIZEN. 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!

       SECOND CITIZEN.

       Why, sir, cobble you.

       FLAVIUS.

       Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

       SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I 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?

       SECOND CITIZEN. 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 moved;

       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.]

      SCENE II. The same. A public place.

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

       CAESAR.

       Calpurnia,—

       CASCA.

       Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

       [Music ceases.]

       CAESAR.

       Calpurnia,—

       CALPURNIA.

       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 Calpurnia; 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.

      

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