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SCENE, for the three firft a&is, at Rome; afterwards, at an ifle \near Mutina, at Sardis, and Philippi.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A fireet in Rome.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners.

Flav. 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 fign
Of your profeffion? Speak, what trade art thou?

VOL. VII.

A

Car.

Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

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

You, Sir,- -What trade are you?

Cob. Truly, Sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would fay, a cobler.

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

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

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.

Flav. What mean't thou by that? mend me, thou faucy fellow?

Cob. Why, Sir, coble

you.

Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

Cob. Truly, Sir, all that I live by, is the awl. I meddle with no mens' matters, nor woman's matters; but withal I am, indeed, Sir, a furgeon to old fhoes. when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. proper men as ever trod upon neats-lether have gone upon my handy-work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why doft thou lead these men about the streets?

As

Cob. "Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get "myself into more work." But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice!-what conqueft brings he What tributaries follow him to Rome, [home? To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than fenfeless 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 fat The live-long day with patient expectation, To fee great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when faw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout,

you

That

That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your founds,.
Made in his concave fhores

And do you now put on your beft attire?
And do you now cull out an-holiday?
And do you now ftrew 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.

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

Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the loweft ftream
Do kifs the moft exalted fhores of all.

[Exeunt Commoners. See, whe'r their baseft mettle be not mov'd; They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness. Go you down that way tow'rds the Capitol, This will I ; difrobe the images,

way

If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies t.
Mar. May we do fo?

You know it is the feaft of Lupercal.

Flav. It is no matter, let no images
Be hung with Cæfar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
Thefe growing feathers pluck'd from Cæfar's wing,.
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;

Who else would foar above the view of men,

And keep us all in fervile fearfulness. [Exeunt feverally.

SCENE II.

Enter Cafar, Antony, for the courfe, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Cafea, and a Soothsayer.

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t ceremonies, for religious ornaments.

Calp.

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