THE

W ORK S

O F

SHAKESPEAR.

VOLUME the SEVENTH.

CONTAINING,

JULIUS CESAR.

ANTONY and CLEOPATRA.

CYMBELINE.

TROILUS and CRESSIDA.

EDINBURGH:

Printed by SANDS, MURRAY, and COCHRAN.

FOR

W.SANDS, HAMILTON & BALFOUR, KINCAID & DONALD"
SON, L. HUNTER, J. YAIR, W. GORDON, and J. BROWN.
MDCCLIII.

STADT

BIBLIOTHEK IN ZURICH.

SCENE, for the three first acts, at Rome; afterwards, at an ifle near Mutina, at Sardis, and Philippi

"HE Η

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?

A 2

Car

Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule 2
What doft thou with thy beft apparel on?
You, Sir,- -What trade are you?

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

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer 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 beseech 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, cobble 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 shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neats-lether have gone upon my handy-work.

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

Cob. Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get "myself into more work." But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to see Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice! what conqueft brings What tributaries follow him to Rome, [he home?

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you ftones, you worse than senseless things! 0 cruel men of Rome! hard hearts! you you 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 you faw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout,

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 best 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 muft 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 lowest stream
Do kifs the most exalted shores of all.

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

If

you do find them deck'd with ceremonies *. 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 elfe would foar above the view of men,

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

Enter Cæfar, Antony, for the course, Calphurnia, Por tia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Caffius, Cafca, and a Soothsayer.

Caf. Calphurnia,

Cafca. Peace, ho! Cæfar fpeaks.

Gaf. Calphurnia,

ceremonies, for religious ornaments.

A 3

Calp,