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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 justice 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 Cafus, 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 juft faid, it is nafural 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 myselfHave mind upon your health-tempt me no farther. Bru. Away, flight man. Caf. Is't poffible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Muft I give way and room to your rafh choler?
Caf. O gods! ye gods! muft I endure all this?
Go fhew your flaves how cholerick you are,
Caf. Is it come to this?
Bru. You fay, you are a better foldier ;
I fhall be glad to learn of noble men.
Caf. You wrong me every way-
I faid, an elder foldier; not a better.
you wrong me,
fident affertion of the truth of his opinion. And that the fu periority of foldiership was the point of their difpute, is most manifeftly evident; by Brutus' refuming it a little lower,
You fay you are a better foldier, &c.
Upon which Caffius answers,
You wrong me ev'ry way; you wrong me, Brutus,
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 so have tempted
Caf. I durft not?
Caf. What? durft not tempt him?
Bru. For your life you durft not.
Caf. Do not prefume too much upon my love? I may do that, I fhall be forry for.
Bru. You have done that, you should be forry for.
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
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash,
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 peasants 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.
he was but a fool,
Caf. I did not
That brought my answer back.
Brutus hath riv'd
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Caf. A friendly eye could never fee fuch faults. For Caffius is a weary of the world:
Hated by one he loves; brav'd by his brother;
I that deny'd thee gold, will give my heart;
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov’dst him
Than ever thou lov'd'ft Caffius.
Bru. Sheath your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;
Caf. Hath Caffius liv'd
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
Bu, What's the matter?
Bru. Yes, Caffius, and from henceforth When you are over-earnest
He'll think your mother and leave
* * * * * *
* * * *
Bru, O Caffius, I am fick of many griefs.
Caf. Of your philosophy you make no use,
Bru. No man bears forrow better-Porcia's dead.
Bru. She is dead.
Caf. How 'fcap'd I killing, when I croft you fo
Caf. O ye immortal gods!
Bru. Impatient of my abfence;
And grief, that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves fo ftrong: (for with her death That tidings came; (with this she fell distract,
And (her attendants abfent,) swallow'd fire.
Caf. And dy'd fo ?
Bru. Even fo.
Enter boy with wine and tapers.
Bru. Speak no more of her; give me a bowl of