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For certain sums of gold, which you denied me :
For I can raise no money by vile means:

By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection: I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;

Dash him to pieces !

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Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought

My answer back.

Brutus hath rived my heart:

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru.

I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world;

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep

My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart ;

Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru.
Sheathe your dagger :
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb

That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas.
Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.

Cas.

Bru.

O Brutus !

What's the matter?

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Bru.
Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Poet. [Within] Let me go in to see the generals ;
There is some grudge between 'em, 'tis not meet
They be alone.

Lucil. [Within] You shall not come to them.
Poet. [Within] Nothing but death shall stay me.

Cas.

Enter Poet, followed by LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, and Lucius.
How now! what's the matter?

Poet. For shame, you generals! what do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be ;
For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye.

Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme !
Bru. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!

Cas. Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion.

Bru. I'll know his humour, when he knows his time: What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence!

Cas.

Away, away, be gone!

[Exit Poet.

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.

Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala with

you

Immediately to us.

[Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.

Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine!

[Exit Lucius.

Cas. I did not think you could have been so angry.
Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use,

If you give place to accidental evils.

Bru. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. Cas. Ha! Portia !

Bru. She is dead.

Cas. How 'scaped I killing when I crossed you so? O insupportable and touching loss !

Upon what sickness?

Bru.

Impatient of my absence,

And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony

Have made themselves so strong :-for with her death
That tidings came ;-with this she fell distract,

And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire.

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Re-enter LUCIUS, with wine and taper.

Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;

I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.

W. Shakespeare.

Cas.

CLXXXI.

JULIUS CÆSAR.

ACT V. SCENE I.-The plains of Philippi.

BRUTUS and CASSIUS.

OW, most noble Brutus,

The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this

The

very last time we shall speak together: What are you then determined to do?

Bru. Even by the rule of that philosophy
By which I did blame Cato for the death
Which he did give himself, I know not how,
But I do find it cowardly and vile,

For fear of what might fall, so to prevent
The time of life: arming myself with patience
To stay the providence of some high powers
That govern us below.

Cas.

Then, if we lose this battle,

You are contented to be led in triumph

Through the streets of Rome?

Bru. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;

He bears too great a mind. But this same day
Must end that work the ides of March begun ;
And whether we shall meet again I know not.
Therefore our everlasting farewell take :
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then, this parting was well made.
Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus !

If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed;
If not, 'tis true this parting was well made.

Bru. Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it come!

But it sufficeth that the day will end,

And then the end is known.

W. Shakespeare.

CLXXXII.

THE REFUSAL OF CHARON.*

HY look the distant mountains
So gloomy and so drear ?

Are rain-clouds passing o'er them,
Or is the tempest near ?

No shadow of the tempest

Is there, nor wind nor rain—
'Tis Charon that is passing by,
With all his gloomy train.

The young men march before him,
In all their strength and pride :
The tender little infants,

They totter by his side.

The old men walk behind him,
And earnestly they pray—

Both young and old imploring him
Το
grant some brief delay.

'O Charon! halt we pray thee,

By yonder little town,

Or near that sparkling fountain,

Where the waters wimple down!

The old will drink and be refreshed,
The young the disc will fling,
And the tender little children

Pluck flowers beside the spring.'

* According to the superstition of the modern Greeks, Charon performs the function which their ancestors assigned to Hermes, of conducting the souls of the dead to the other world.

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