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I will consider; what you have to say,
I will with patience hear; and find a time
Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Cas. I am glad that my weak words
76. The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius.
Cassius. THAT you have wronged me, doth appear in this You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters- praying on his side, Because I knew the man were slighted of. Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.
Cas. Chastisement !
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember?
Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake ·
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
Cas. Brutus, bay not me;
Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Bru. I say, you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more; I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, — tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is't possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas. Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break Go, show your slaves, how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor?
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier; Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him Cas. I durst not?
Cas. What, durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; do what I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me; was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cas. I did not; he was but a fool
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;
Bru. I do not like your Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is a-weary of the world;
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart;
Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.
Bru. Sheathe your dagger;
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Cas. O Brutus!
Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
77. Pen, Ink, and Paper.
THERE was little in my inkstand, and nothing in my head, when I sat down, with a fair sheet of Bath-post before me, to write an essay for a lady's portfolio. At first, with a degree of self-complacency, which, perhaps, none but an author in favor can feel, I contemplated the blank under my eye, which was to be enlivened by my wit, or enriched with my eloquence.
As I mended my pen to begin, thought I, "The wisest men on earth could not anticipate what I shall do here, nor the shrewdest guess the subject which will speedily adorn these pages; for I myself am not yet in the secret, nor do I know what I am going to write." This reflection startled me, and "What will it be?" came with such importunity into my mind, that I could not help replying, “What, indeed!" There was silence among my thoughts. a deadwhite silence; and though I called them, called them repeatedly and earnestly, as if I were a drowning man, to come to my assistance, not one would move or speak. I looked with consternation around, but saw nothing except pen, ink, and paper; nay, do what I would, I could make no more of them; pen, ink, and paper they were, and remained. Every moment increased my perplexity, for whatever might be their good-will, or their occult capabilities, they could do nothing for me of themselves; the pen could