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SCENE for the three first Acts in Rome, for the beginning of the fourth at an Iland near Bononia, for the remainder of the fourth near Sardis, for the fifth in the Fields of Philippi..

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H

FLAVIU s.

ENCE; 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 fign

Of fyour profeffion?-Speak, what trade art thou?

1 Pleb. Why, fir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What doft thou with thy beft apparel on?

You, fir, what trade are you?

2 Pleb. Truly, fir, in respect of a fine workman I am but as you would fay, a cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? anfwer me directly.

2 Pleb. A trade, fir, that I hope I may use with a safe confcience; which is, indeed, fir, a mender of bad foals.

Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

2 Pleb. Nay, I beseech you, fir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, fir, I can mend you.

Flav. What mean'ft thou by that? mend me, thou faucy fellow?

2 Pleb. Why, fir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

2 Pleb. Truly, fir, all that I live by, is the awl: I meddle with no man's matters, nor woman's matters; but withall, I am indeed, fir, a furgeon to old fhoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neatsleather have gone upon my handiwork.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to-day?

Why doft thou lead these men about the streets?

2 Pleb. Truly, fir, to wear out their fhoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, fir, we make holiday to see Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice! what conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O, you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day with patient expectation,
To fee great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you faw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal fhout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave fhores? And do you now
Put on your best attire? and do you now
Cull out an holiday? and do you now
Strew flowers in his way, that comes to Rome
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.

Flav. Go, go, good countrymen; and, for this fault,
Affemble all the poor men of your fort,

Draw

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