LITMIR.BIZ

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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 make

      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

      Exeunt all but BRUTUS

      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. You’ve 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 stared upon me with ungentle looks;

      I urged 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, yourself, your half,

      Why you are heavy, and what men to-night

      Have had to 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 yourself

      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!

      Knocking within

      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

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