LUCILIUS.
A messenger express arriv'd from Rome,
Is entring mournfully the Palace Gates;
And, as he passes, weeping all the way.

BRUTUS.
My Mind forbodes; speak, is my Portia well? Enter Messenger, who gives a Letter to Brutus.

MESSENGER.
She is, Sir.

BRUTUS.
Then I hope to bear the worst.

“My Duty forces me to send you News, (Reads.
“Which, tho' you needs must know, I grieve to write.
“Two hundred of the noblest Rank in Rome
“Proscrib'd, and murder'd: Cicero himself
“Giv'n up by false Octavius to his Foes.
Good Heav'ns! to whom do ye dispose Mankind? (Drops the Letter.
Sad Fate indeed; so great a Villany
Is most surprising, tho' 'tis done by them. (Weeps.

JUNIA.
Dismal indeed! but oh my dearest Brother,
Let not your tender Mind be too much touch'd;
Practise that Patience which you now taught me.
Cassius is absent, I am desolate,
Yet Rome (you said) must take up all my Thoughts.

BRUTUS.
And therefore 'tis for Rome I most lament,
At once depriv'd of her most worthy Sons!
Those Sons are to be envy'd, not bemoan'd;

Most noble Suff'rers in their Country's Cause!
Great Cicero lives still, shall live for ever;
While Men can read, or value Worth or Learning.
But Rome her self appears all pale before me,
Gushing out Tears, and wringing helpless Hands;
Rome, Rome has lost her best, her purest Blood! (Weeps again.

JUNIA.
Brutus, be cheer'd: her vital Parts remain;
In you and Cassius flows the Roman Spirit,
That still inspires whole Armies on her Side.

LUCILIUS.
'Tis nobly, truly said; and you bright Junia
Possess a Soul, tho' in a softer Frame,
Lofty enough to animate ev'n them.

BRUTUS.
She does, Lucilius; and were Portia here,
(But I alas shall never be so happy)
Cassius and I should be but Followers

Of them in the defence of Liberty
But oh, my Cicero! who speaks thy Praise,
Must have a Tongue like thine, beyond the Bounds
Of Roman Eloquence; and fit to fill
The Mouth of Fame with never-dying Sounds.

JUNIA.
How could Octavius consent to lose him,
The best, as well as wisest of his Friends?

BRUTUS.
Ambition over-eager, checks at nothing;
A goodly, but a dang'rous Bird of Prey;
Flies at all Game, and never to be tam'd,
She pecks, and tears the Hand on which she sits.
I often warn'd good Tully of his Danger;
But all in vain, when Heav'n will have it so.
He wish'd himself with us at Cæsar's Death,
And heartily, I doubt not; tho' his Foes
Suspected his too soft and tender Nature.

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