Caffius, or Cafar, never fhall turn back; Bru. Caffius, be conftant: Popilius Lena fpeaks not of our purpose; For, look, he fmiles, and Cefar doth not change. Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber? let him go, And prefently prefer his fuit to Cæfar. Bru. He is addreft; prefs near, and second him. Met. Moft high, moft mighty, and moft puissant Metellus Cimber throws before thy feat Caf. I muft prevent thee, Cimber; [Kneeling. With that which melteth fools; I mean, fweet words; Low-crooked curt'fies, and bafe fpaniel fawning. Thy brother by decree is banifhed; If thou doft bend, and pray, and fawn for him, Know, Cafar doth not wrong; nor without caufe Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, Caf. Pardon, Cæfar; Cæfar, pardon; To To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. Of whose true, fixt, and resting quality, That I was conftant, Cimber should be banish'd; Caf. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus? Caf. Doth not Brutus bootlefs kneel? [Dies [They fab Cæfar. Caf. Et tu, Brute? -then fall Cajar! Cin. Liberty! freedom! Tyranny is deadRun hence, proclaim, cry it about the ftreetsCaf. Some to the common Pulpits, and cry out, Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement. Bru. People, and Senators! be not affrighted; Fly not, ftand ftill. Ambition's debt is paid. Cafca. Go to the Pulpit, Brutus. Dec. And Caffius too. Bru. Where's Publius? Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. Bru. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer; Caf. And leave us, Publius, left that the people, Bru. Do fo; and let no man abide this deed, But we the Doers. Enter Trebonius. Caf. Where is Antony? Tre. Fled to his Houfe amaz’d. Men, wives, and children, ftare, cry out, and run, Bru. Fates! we will know your pleasures; That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time, Caf. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life, Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Cæfar's friends, that have abridg'd His time of fearing death. (11) Stoop, Romans, stoop; And let us bathe our hands in Cafar's blood Up to the elbows, and befmear our fwords; Then walk we forth ev'n to the Market-place, (11) Stoop, Romans, ftoop,] Mr. Pope, in both his Editions, has, from thefe Words, arbitrarily taken away the Remainder of this Speech from Brutus, and placed it to Cafca: becaufe, he thinks, nothing is more inconfiftent with Brutus's mild and philofophical Character. And as he often finds Speeches in the later Editions, he fays, put into wrong Mouths; he thinks, this Liberty is not unreasonable. 'Tis true, a diligent Editor may find many fuch Errors committed even in the first printed Copies; but it has not often been Mr. Pope's good Fortune to hit upon them. I dare warrant, the Printers made no Blunder in this Inftance; and therefore I have made bold to restore the Speech to its right Owner. Brutus efteem'd the Death of Cæfar a Sacrifice to Liberty: and, as fuch, gloried in his heading the Enterprife. Befides, our Poet is ftrictly copying a Fact in Hiftory. Plutarch, in the Life of Cafar, fays, "Brutus and his Followers, being yet hot with the Murder, "march'd in a Body from the Senate-houfe to the Capitol, with their "drawn Swords, with an Air of Confidence and Affurance.' And, in the Life of Brutus, "Brutus and his Party betook "themselves to the Capitol, and in their way fhering their Hands all “bloody, and their naked Swords, proclaim'd Liberty to the People." And And, waving our red weapons o'er our heads, Shall this our lofty Scene be acted o'er, In States unborn, and accents yet unknown? No worthier than the duft? Caf. So oft as that shall be, So often fhall the knot of us be call'd Caf. Ay, every man away. Brutus fhall lead, and we will grace his heels Enter a Servant. ; [kneeling. Bru. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony's. Tell him, fo please him come unto this place, Serv. I'll fetch him presently. [Exit Servant. Bru Bru. I know, that we fhall have him well to friend. Caf. I with, we may but yet have I a mind, That fears him much; and my misgiving still Falls fhrewdly to the purpose." Enter Antony. Bru. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. Ant. O mighty Cæfar! doft thou lie fo low? Are all thy conquefts, glories, triumphs, fpoils, Shrunk to this little measure ? -fare thee well. I know not, Gentlemen, what you intend, As Cafar's death's hour; nor no inftrument Of half that worth as thofe your fwords, made rich I do befeech ye, if ye bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, I fhall not find myself fo apt to die: Bru. O Antony! beg not your death of us: With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. Bru. Only be patient, 'till we have appeas'd The |