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Caf. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus, that speak this;
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March re member.
Did not great Julius bleed for juftice fake?
Caf. Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it; you forget yourself,
Bru. Go to; you are not, (15) Caffius.
(15) You are not, Caffius.] See Mr. Warburton's note on the place; upon which Mr. Edwards in his Canons of Criticism, p. 93. obferves thus, "If Mr. Warburton had not been giddy with his ideas of bravery, difinterestedness, philofophy, honour, and patriotifm, which have nothing to do here, he would have feen, that Caffius is the vocative cafe, not the nominative; and: that Brutus does not mean to fay, you are not an able foldier; but he fays, you are not an abler than I; a point which it was far. from being beneath his character to infift on.
If the words, you are not Caffius, meant a new imputation on him for degeneracy, his mere denial of it is very flat, and Brutus replying to that denial, by a mere repetition of his former affertion, without adding any reafon for it, is ftill worfe; whereas, if the words mean only a denial of what Caffius had just said, it is natural enough for each of them to maintain his ground, by a con
Caf. I am.
Bru. I fay, you are not.
Caf. Urge me no more, I fhall forget myfelf-D Have mind upon your health-tempt me no farther. Bru. Away, flight man.
Caf. Is't poffible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will fpeak.
Muft I give way and room to your rafh choler?
Caf. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?
Go fhew your flaves how cholerick you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Muft I budge?
Caf. Is it come to this?
Bru. You fay, you are a better foldier ;
Let it appear fo; make your vaunting true,
I faid, an elder foldier; not a better.
-you wrong me,
fident affertion of the truth of his opinion. And that the fuperiority of foldiership was the point of their difpute, is moft manifeftly evident; by Brutus' resuming it a little lower,
You fay you are a better soldier, &c.
Upon which Caffius answers,
You wrong me ev'ry way; you wrong me, Brutus,
Did I fay better ?"
Did I fay, better?
Bru. If you did, I care not
Caf. When Cæfar liv'd, he durft not thus have mov'd me.
Bru. Peace, peace, you durft not fo have tempted
Caf. I durft not?
Caf. What? durft not tempt him?
Caf. Do not prefume too much upon my love?
do that, I fhall be forry for.
Bru. You have done that, you should be forry for.
There is no terror, Caffius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd fo ftrong in honesty,
That they pafs by me, as the idle wind,
Which I refpe&t not. I did fend to you
For certain fums of gold, which you deny'd me;
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, (16) than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did fend
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me; was that done like Caffius?
(16) Than to wring, &c.] This inimitable paffage is not only highly in character, but as Mr. Warburton has obferv'd, is moft happily expreffed. "To wring implies both to get unjustly, and to ufe force in getting: And hard bands fignify both the peafants great labour and pains in acquiring, and his great unwillingness to quit his hold.”
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Caf. I deny'd you not.
Bru. You did.
Caf. I did not.
-he was but a fool,
That brought my anfwer back.-Brutus hath riv'd
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities,
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Caf. A friendly eye could never fee fuch faults.
Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother;
My fpirit from mine eyes-There is my dagger,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'd'ft Caffius.
Bru. Sheath your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Caf. Hath Caffius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
Bru. And my heart too.
Caf. O Brutus !
Bu, What's the matter?
Caf. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Caffius, and from henceforth
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
Bru, O Caffius, I am fick of many griefs.
Caf. Of your philofophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.
Bru. No man bears forrow better-Porcia's dead. Caf. Ha! Porcia!
Bru. She is dead..
Caf. How 'fcap'd I killing, when I croft you fo O infupportable and touching lofs!
Upon what fickness?
Bru. Impatient of my abfence;
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,) fwallow'd fire.
Caf. And dy'd fo ?
Bru. Even fo.
Caf. O ye immortal gods!
Enter boy with wine and tapers.
Bru. Speak no more of her; give me a bowl of