Bru.
Where, where, Messala, doth his body lye?

Mes.
Lo yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Bru.
Titinius' face is upward.

Cato.
He is slain.

Bru.
Oh Julius Cæsar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords
In our own proper entrails. [Low alarums.

Cato.
Brave Titinius!
Look if he have not crown'd dead Cassius?

Bru.
Are yet two Romans living such as these?
Thou last of all the Romans! fare thee well;
It is impossible that ever Rome

Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears
To this dead man, than you shall see me pay.
I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time—
Come therefore, and to Tharsus send his body,
His funeral shall not be in our camp,
Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius come,
And come young Cato, let us to the field.
Labio and Flavius set our battels on.
'Tis three a clock, and, Romans, yet ere night
We shall try fortune in a second fight. [Exeunt.

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