Bru.
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.

Cli.
Statilius shew'd the torch light, but, my lord,
He came not back, he is or ta'en, or slain.

Bru.
Sit thee down, Clitus; slaying is the word,
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus— [Whispering.

Cli.
What I, my lord? no, not for all the world.

Bru.
Peace then, no words.

Cli.
I'll rather kill my self.

Bru.
Hark thee, Dardanius!

Dar.
I do such a deed?

Cli.
Oh Dardanius!

Dar.
Oh Clitus!

Cli.
What ill request did Brutus make to thee?

Dar.
To kill him, Clitus: look, he meditates.

Cli.
Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.

Bru.
Come hither, good Volumnius, list a word.

Vol.
What says my lord?

Bru.
Why this, Volumnius;
The ghost of Cæsar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night; at Sardis, once;
And this last night, here in Philippi-Fields.
I know my hour is come.

Vol.
Not so, my lord.

Bru.
Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius.
Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;
Our enemies have beat us to the pit: [Alarum.
It is more worthy to leap in our selves,
Than tarry 'till they push us. Good Volumnius,
Thou know'st that we two went to school together;
Even for that, our love of old, I pr'ythee
Hold thou my sword's hilt, while I run on it.

Vol.
That's not an office for a friend, my lord. [Alarum still.

Cli.
Fly, fly, my lord, there is no tarrying here.

Bru.
Farewel to you, and you; and you Volumnius.
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;
Farewel to thee, to Strato, countrymen;
My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life,
I found no man, but he was true to me.
I shall have glory by this losing day,

More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.
So fare you well at once, for Brutus' tongue
Hath almost ended his life's history.
Night hangs upon mine eyes, my bones would rest,
That have but labour'd to attain this hour. [Alarum Cry within, fly, fly, fly.

Cli.
Fly, my lord, fly—

Bru.
Hence; I will follow thee.
I pry'thee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord,
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in't.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?

Stra.
Give me your hand first—fare you well, my lord.

Bru.
Farewel, good Strato—Cæsar, now be still,
I kill'd not thee with half so good a will. [He runs on his sword and dies.

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