spark,
And straight is cold again.
Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him?
When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
And my heart too.
O Brutus!
What's the matter?
Have not you love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful?
Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Let me go in to see the generals;
There is some grudge between 'em, 'tis not meet
They be alone.
You shall not come to them.
Nothing but death shall stay me.
How now! what's the matter?
For shame, you generals! what do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be;
For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye.
Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme!
Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!
Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion.
I'll know his humour, when he knows his time:
What should the wars do with these jigging fools?
Companion, hence!
Away, away, be gone.
Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.
And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you
Immediately to us.
Lucius, a bowl of wine!
I did not think you could have been so angry.
O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
Of your philosophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.
No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.
Ha! Portia!
She is dead.
How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so?
O insupportable and touching loss!
Upon what sickness?
Impatient of my absence,
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong:--for with her death
That tidings came;--with this she fell distract,
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire.
And died so?
Even so.
O ye immortal gods!
Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.
My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;
I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.
Come in, Titinius!
Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.
Portia, art thou gone?
No more, I pray you.
Messala, I