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Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
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SCENE II. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army.

Bru.
They stand, and would have parley.

Cas.
Stand fast, Titinius. We must out and talk.

Octa.
Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?

Ant.
No, Cæsar, we will answer on their charge.
Make forth, the Generals would have some words.

Octa.
Stir not until the signal.

Bru.
Words before blows. Is it so, countrymen?

Octa.
Not that we love words better, as you do.

Bru.
Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.

Ant.
In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words.
Witness the hole you made in Cæsar's heart,
Crying, “Long live! hail, Cæsar!”

Cas.
Antony,
The posture of your blows are yet unknown;
But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,
And leave them honeyless.

Ant.
Not stingless too.

Bru.
O yes, and soundless too:
For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony;
And very wisely threat, before you sting.

Ant.
Villains! you did not so, when your vile daggers
Hack'd one another in the sides of Cæsar.
You shew'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds,
And bow'd like bond-men, kissing Cæsar's feet;
Whilst damned 1 noteCasca, like a cur behind,

-- 89 --


Struck Cæsar on the neck. O flatterers!

Cas.
Flatterers! now, Brutus, thank yourself;
This tongue had not offended so to-day,
If Cassius might have rul'd.

Octa.
Come, come, the cause. If arguing make us sweat,
The proof of it will turn to redder drops.
Behold, I draw a sword against conspirators;
When think you, that the sword goes up again?
Never, 'till Cæsar's 2 notethree and twenty wounds
Be well aveng'd; or till another Cæsar
Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Bru.
Cæsar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands,
Unless thou bring'st them with thee.

Octa.
So I hope
I was not born to die on Brutus' sword.

Bru.
O, if thou wert the noblest of thy Strain,
Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.

Cas.
A peevish school-boy, worthless of such honour,
Join'd with a masker and a reveller.

Ant.
Old Cassius still!—

Octa.
Come Antony. Away;
Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth.
If you dare fight to-day, come to the field;
If not, when you have stomachs.
[Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and army.

-- 90 --

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Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
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