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Let die the spotted.

1 Sen.

For those that were,

On those that are,
Are not inherited.
Bring in thy ranks,

All have not offended; it is not square to take, revenge: crimes, like lands, Then, dear countryman, but leave without thy rage: Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin, Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall With those that have offended.

Like a shepherd,

Approach the fold, and cull th' infected forth,

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Against our rampir'd gates, and they shall ope,
So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,

To say, thou 'It enter friendly.

2 Sen.

Or any token of thine honour else,

Throw thy glove,

That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress,
And not as our confusion, all thy powers
Shall make their harbour in our town, till we
Have seal'd thy full desire.

Alcib.
Then, there's my glove:
Descend, and open your uncharged ports.
Those enemies of Timon's, and mine own,
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,
Fall, and no more; and, to atone your fears
With my more noble meaning,

not a man

Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream
Of regular justice in your city's bounds,
But shall be remedied to your public laws

At heaviest answer.

Both.

Alcib. Descend, and keep your words.

'T is most nobly spoken.

[The Senators descend, and open the Gates

Enter a Soldier.

Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead;
Entomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea:
And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
Interprets for my poor ignorance.

Alcib. [Reads.] "Here lies a wretched corse of wretched soul bereft :

Seek not my name. A plague consume you wicked caitiffs left! Here lie I Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate :

Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy gait." These well express in thee thy latter spirits:

Though thou abhorr❜dst in us our human griefs,

Scorn'dst our brain's flow, and those our droplets which
From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit

Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for
On thy low grave on faults forgiven. Dead
Is noble Timon; of whose memory

Hereafter more.

Bring me into your city,

And I will use the olive with my sword:

aye

Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each

Prescribe to other, as each other's leech.

Let our drums strike.

[Exeunt.

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CINNA,

ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos.

A Soothsayer.

CINNA, a Poet. Another Poet.
LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSA-
LA, young CATO, and VOLUM-
NIUS; Friends to Brutus and
Cassius.

VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS,
STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDA-
NIUS; Servants to Brutus.
PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius.

FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, Tri- CALPHURNIA, Wife to Cæsar.

bunes.

PORTIA, Wife to Brutus.

Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c.

SCENE, during a great part of the Play, at Rome: afterwards at Sardis and near Philippi.

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Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and a body of Citizens.
Flav. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home.
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,

Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign

Of your profession? - Speak, what trade art thou?

1 Cit. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?

You, Sir; what trade are you?

2 Cit. Truly, Sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

2 Cit. A trade, Sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, Sir, a mender of bad soles.

Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what

trade?

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, Sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, Sir, I can mend you.

Mar. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me,

fellow?

thou saucy

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2 Cit. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is, with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with all. I am, indeed, Sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neatsleather have gone upon my handy work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day?

Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

2 Cit. Truly, Sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, Sir, we make holiday, to see Cæsar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O! you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,

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