JULIUS CAESAR. William Shakespeare

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       CASSIUS.

       But it is doubtful yet

       Whether Caesar will come forth today or no;

       For he is superstitious grown of late,

       Quite from the main opinion he held once

       Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies.

       It may be these apparent prodigies,

       The unaccustom’d terror of this night,

       And the persuasion of his augurers

       May hold him from the Capitol to-day.

       DECIUS.

       Never fear that: if he be so resolved,

       I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear

       That unicorns may be betray’d with trees,

       And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,

       Lions with toils, and men with flatterers:

       But when I tell him he hates flatterers,

       He says he does, being then most flattered.

       Let me work;

       For I can give his humor the true bent,

       And I will bring him to the Capitol.

       CASSIUS.

       Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.

       BRUTUS.

       By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

       CINNA.

       Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.

       METELLUS.

       Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard,

       Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey:

       I wonder none of you have thought of him.

       BRUTUS.

       Now, good Metellus, go along by him:

       He loves me well, and I have given him reason;

       Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.

       CASSIUS.

       The morning comes upon ‘s. We’ll leave you, Brutus;—

       And, friends, disperse yourselves, but all remember

       What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

       BRUTUS.

       Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;

       Let not our looks put on our purposes,

       But bear it as our Roman actors do,

       With untired spirits and formal constancy:

       And so, good morrow to you every one.—

       [Exeunt all but 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 offense within your mind,

       Which, by the right and virtue of my place,

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