Fla.
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. C.
Why, sir, a carpenter.

Mur.
Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir; what trade are you?

2. C.

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobler.

Mur.

But what trade14Q1015 art thou? Answer me directly.

2. C.

A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad souls.

Mur.
What ^note trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

2. C.
Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me:
Yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

Mur.
What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

2. C.

Why, sir, coble you.

Fla.
Thou art a cobler, art thou?14Q1016

2. C.

Truly, sir, all that I live by is, the ^note awl ^note: I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's ^note matters; but, with all ^note. 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 neats-leather have gone upon my handy-work.

Fla.

But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

2. C.

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.

Mur.
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,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembl'd underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in his concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone;
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Fla.
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
Draw them to Tyber banks, ^note and weep your tears
Into the channel, 'till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt Citizens.
See, whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
They vanish tongue-ty'd in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the capitol;
This way will I: Disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.14Q1017

Mur.
May we do so? you know, it is the feast
Of Lupercal.

Fla.
'Tis no matter; let no images ^note
Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's wing,
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch;
Who else would soar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.

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