Por.
Brutus, my lord!

Bru.
Porcia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now?
It is not for your health, thus to commit
Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

Por.
Nor for yours neither. &wlquo;You've ungently, Brutus,
&wlquo;Stole from my bed: and, yesternight at supper,
&wlquo;You suddenly arose and walk'd about,
&wlquo;Musing and sighing, with your arms a-cross:
&wlquo;And, when I ask'd you what the matter was,
&wlquo;You star'd upon me with ungentle looks.

&wlquo;I urg'd you further; then you scratch'd your head,
&wlquo;And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot:
&wlquo;Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not;
&wlquo;But with an angry wafture of your hand,
&wlquo;Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did,
&wlquo;Fearing to strengthen that impatience,
&wlquo;Which seem'd too much inkindled; and, withal,
&wlquo;Hoping it was but an effect of humour;
&wlquo;Which sometime hath his hour with every man.&wrquo;
It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep;
And could it work so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

Bru.
I am not well in health, and that is all.

Por.
Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.

Bru.
Why, so I do: good Porcia, go to bed.

Por.
Is Brutus sick? and is it physical
To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours
Of the dank morning? what, is Brutus sick?
And will he steal out of his wholsom bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night?
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air,
To add unto his sickness? no, my Brutus,
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the Right and Virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, your self, your half,
Why you are heavy: and what men to night
Have had resort to you: for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.

Bru.
Kneel not, gentle Porcia.

Por.
I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? am I your self,
But, as it were, in sort or limitation?
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? if it be no more,
Porcia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Bru.
You are my true and honourable wife;
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.

Por.
If this were true, then should I know this secret.
I grant, I am a woman; but withal,
A woman that lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant, I am a woman; but withal,
^{1 note}

Bru.
O ye Gods!

Render me worthy of this noble wife. [Knock.
Hark, hark, one knocks: Porcia, go in a while;
And, by and by, thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart.
All my engagements I will construe to thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows.
Leave me with haste. [Exit Porcia. Enter Lucius and Ligarius.
Lucius, who's there that knocks?

Luc.
Here is a sick man, that would speak with you.

Bru.
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.
Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how?

Cai.
Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.

Bru.
O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,
To wear a kerchief? 'would, you were not sick!

Cai.
I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand
Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

Bru.
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you an healthful ear to hear of it.

Cai.
By all the Gods the Romans bow before,
I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome!
Brave son, deriv'd from honourable loins!
Thou, like an Exorcist, hast conjur'd up
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible;
Yea, get the better of them. What's to do?

Bru.
A piece of work, that will make sick men whole.

Cai.
But are not some whole, that we must make sick?

Bru.
That we must also. What it is, my Caius,
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going,
To whom it must be done.

Cai.
Set on your foot,
And with a heart new-fir'd I follow you,
To do I know not what: but it sufficeth,

That Brutus leads me on.

Bru.
Follow me then. [Exeunt.

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