is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, 'Artemidorus.' Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone: Why dost thou stay? To know my errand, madam. I would have had thee there, and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet? Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy! what noise is that? I hear none, madam. Prithee, listen well; I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou been? At mine own house, good lady. What is't o'clock? About the ninth hour, lady. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand, To see him pass on to the Capitol. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him? None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow: The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of senators, of praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I'll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure,