JULIUS CAESAR. William Shakespeare

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better

       Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

       BRUTUS.

       Sheathe your dagger:

       Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;

       Do what you will, dishonor shall be humour.

       O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb

       That carries anger as the flint bears fire;

       Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,

       And straight is cold again.

       CASSIUS.

       Hath Cassius lived

       To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

       When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him?

       BRUTUS.

       When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.

       CASSIUS.

       Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

       BRUTUS.

       And my heart too.

       CASSIUS.

       O Brutus,—

       BRUTUS.

       What’s the matter?

       CASSIUS.

       —Have not you love enough to bear with me,

       When that rash humor which my mother gave me

       Makes me forgetful?

       BRUTUS.

       Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,

       When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

       He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

       [Noise within.]

       POET.

       [Within.] Let me go in to see the generals:

       There is some grudge between ‘em; ‘tis not meet

       They be alone.

       LUCILIUS.

       [Within.] You shall not come to them.

       POET.

       [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.

       [Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, and Titinius.]

       CASSIUS.

       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.

       CASSIUS.

       Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme!

       BRUTUS.

       Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!

       CASSIUS.

       Bear with him, Brutus; ‘tis his fashion.

       BRUTUS.

       I’ll know his humor when he knows his time:

       What should the wars do with these jigging fools?—

       Companion, hence!

       CASSIUS.

       Away, away, be gone!

       [Exit Poet.]

       BRUTUS.

       Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders

       Prepare to lodge their companies tonight.

       CASSIUS.

       And come yourselves and bring Messala with you

       Immediately to us.

       [Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.]

       BRUTUS.

       Lucius, a bowl of wine!

       [Exit Lucius.]

       CASSIUS.

       I did not think you could have been so angry.

       BRUTUS.

       O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

       CASSIUS.

       Of your philosophy you make no use,

       If you give place to accidental evils.

       BRUTUS.

       No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.

       CASSIUS.

       Ha! Portia!

       BRUTUS.

       She is dead.

       CASSIUS.

       How ‘scaped I killing, when I cross’d you so?—

       O insupportable and touching loss!—

       Upon what sickness?

       BRUTUS.

       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, swallow’d fire.

       CASSIUS.

       And died so?

       BRUTUS.

       Even so.

       CASSIUS.

       O ye immortal gods!

       [Re-enter Lucius, with wine and a taper.]

       BRUTUS.

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

       In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

       [Drinks.]

       CASSIUS.

       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.

       [Drinks.]

       BRUTUS.

       Come in, Titinius!—

       [Exit Lucius.]

       [Re-enter Titinius, with Messala.]

       Welcome, good Messala.—

       Now sit we close about this taper here,

       And call in question our necessities.

       CASSIUS.

       Portia, art thou gone?

       BRUTUS.

       No more, I pray you.—

       Messala, I have here received letters,

       That young Octavius and Mark Antony

       Come down upon us with a mighty power,

       Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

       MESSALA.

       Myself have letters of the selfsame tenour.

       BRUTUS.

       With what addition?

       MESSALA.

       That by proscription and bills of outlawry

       Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus

       Have put to death an hundred Senators.

       BRUTUS.

       There in our letters do not well agree:

       Mine speak of seventy Senators that died

       By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

       CASSIUS.

       Cicero one!

       MESSALA.

       Cicero is dead,

       And by that order of proscription.—