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 myself.

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 too, 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 pr'ythee, 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.

Previous section

Next section