/lit/ - Literature

Scene 2
Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia,
Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer;
after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

CAESAR
Calphurnia.
CASCA Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.
CAESAR Calphurnia.
CALPHURNIA Here, my lord.
CAESAR
Stand you directly in Antonius’ way
When he doth run his course.—Antonius.
ANTONY Caesar, my lord.
CAESAR
Forget not in your speed, Antonius,
To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say
The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,
Shake off their sterile curse.
ANTONY I shall remember.
When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.
CAESAR
Set on and leave no ceremony out.Sennet.
SOOTHSAYER Caesar.
CAESAR Ha! Who calls?
CASCA
Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!
CAESAR
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue shriller than all the music
Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.
SOOTHSAYER
Beware the ides of March.
CAESAR What man is that?
BRUTUS
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
CAESAR
Set him before me. Let me see his face.
CASSIUS
Fellow, come from the throng.
The Soothsayer comes forward.
Look upon Caesar.
CAESAR
What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.
SOOTHSAYER Beware the ides of March.
CAESAR
He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.
Sennet. All but Brutus and Cassius exit.
CASSIUS
Will you go see the order of the course?
BRUTUS Not I.
CASSIUS I pray you, do.
BRUTUS
I am not gamesome. I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires.
I’ll leave you.
CASSIUS
Brutus, I do observe you now of late.
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love as I was wont to have.
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.
BRUTUS Cassius,
Be not deceived. If I have veiled my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexèd I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)
Nor construe any further my neglect
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.