Sure I sleep now, or else my Eyes delude me:
I know 'tis Fancy all; and yet I stagger;
Ha, it comes on. What art thou? When alive,
Tho' arm'd with Pow'r, adorn'd with Fame and Greatness,
I fear'd thee not, because thou wert unjust;
But, more than human now, thou seem'st above me!
Speak, unknown Being! I conjure thee, speak.

SPIRIT.
I am thy Evil Genius, Marcus Brutus,
And have assum'd this Shape, to give thee Terror.

BRUTUS.
Terror? How cam'st thou to know Me no better?
Sure thou art ignorant, as well as evil.

SPIRIT.
Is Murder then no Crime?

BRUTUS.
Killing is none;
When done not for our selves, but for our Country?

SPIRIT.
Not for your self indeed; you stab'd your Friend.

BRUTUS.
Friend? Oh, thou touchest now my tender part!
Oh, name that word no more!

SPIRIT.
A Friend! a Friend!

BRUTUS.
But what's a Friend, compar'd with Publick Good?
Convince me, if thou can'st: Oh, teach me Truth!
And shew me but one glimpse of future Being,
Of which we talk so much, yet know so little!
Dispel these Mists that muffle poor Mankind,
And open to me all that glorious Scene!
Shew me where Virtue smiles, and sits enthron'd,
And where Morality finds just Reward;
'Tis sure, above: for ill Men prosper here.

SPIRIT.
Soon at Philippi thou shalt know it all.

BRUTUS.
Shall we then meet again?

SPIRIT.
Yes, at Philippi.

BRUTUS.
I'll meet thee there. I'll meet thee any where. (Exit Spirit.

Now I am resolute, the Shadow flies,
And vanishes together with my Fear.
What hoa!

Enter Boy.
My Lord;

BRUTUS.
Did you see nothing?

BOY.
No.

BRUTUS.
Nor hear me speak?

BOY.
Nothing at all, my Lord.

BRUTUS.
Let every thing be ready for our March;
And call me up, be sure, by break of Day.
Till then I'll sleep within. (Exeunt.

Third CHORUS. Of Roman Senators.

I.
Dark is the Maze poor Mortals tread;
  Wisdom it self a Guide will need:
We little thought when Cæsar bled,
  That a worse Cæsar would succeed.
And are we under such a Curse,
We cannot change, but for the worse?

II.
With fair Pretence of Foreign Force,
  By which Rome must her self enthrall;
These, without Blushes or Remorse,
  Proscribe the best, impov'rish all.
The Gauls themselves, our greatest Foes
Could act no Mischiefs worse than those.

III.
That Julius, with ambitious Thoughts,
  Had Virtues too, his Foes could find;
These equal him in all his Faults,
  But never in his noble Mind.
That Free-born Spirits shou'd obey
Wretches, who know not how to sway!

IV
Late we repent our hasty Choice,
  In vain bemoan so quick a Turn.
Heark all to Rome's united Voice!
  Better that we a while had born
Ev'n all those Ills which most displease,
Than sought a Cure far worse than the Disease.

Previous section