University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

BRUTUS, CÆSAR.
CÆSAR.
With whom dost thou retire?

BRUTUS.
—With banish'd Liberty.

CÆSAR.
Vain, honest Purposer! Made weak by Virtue!
Thou wrong'st the Friend of every Wish, thou form'st!
Cited by Antony, why cam'st thou not?
Or why, not coming, was Reproach thought needful?
With insolent Contempt of Power above thee?
Find'st thou Delight, in living to offend?
There's not a Name, in all thy private Friendships,
That is not mark'd, in public, as my Foe.

BRUTUS.
When Foes to Cæsar are the Friends of Rome,
May Heaven inspire his Will, to love their Counsel!

CÆSAR.
Speak out:—The just Enjoy the Slanderer's Malice,
And weigh their Virtue's Force, by bad Men's Censure.

BRUTUS.
All Men confess the Force of Cæsar's Virtues:
Resistless Virtues!—They endear the Chains
Of a submitting World, that smiles, and suffers!

CÆSAR.
Thou art, thyself, in Chains, and see'st it not;
Thou art that poorest of blind Slaves—a Tool!
Whose Bluntness works for Wills, that scorn thy Promptness.
So work'd they, once, on Pompey.—Weak well-meaner.
Driven, yet, too proud to follow!—Had he conquer'd,
His flexile Yoke had gall'd, both Men, and Laws:
Then, what had Brutus been?

BRUTUS.
—Lord of one Dagger.

CÆSAR.
Fell mind!—And can there none be found, for Cæsar?

BRUTUS.
Strike, first—and blast the distant Possibility!

CÆSAR.
No.—Brutus!—There's a Power forbids that Blow:
Read this, blind Wanderer!—Know thyself, and me.

(Gives him Servilia's Letter.)
BRUTUS.
Cæsar, I die:—Punish'd by Heaven's just Hand,
At once, my Life forsakes me, and my Love.
Pity, when I am gone, and think of—Brutus:
The Life, you gave him [Starts]
will deserve your Care.
Farewell!—And, for the Father, may the Gods,
To the Son's Heart, transfer the Mother's Love!
Servilia!—Heaven, Servilia!—wrote she this?
She did—and, if I wake, Rome sleeps forever.

CÆSAR.
I had not thought, till my return from Parthia,
To trust thee with this Secret, of thy Birth:
But to protect Thee, from the Willes of Cassius,
I claim Thee, and Precipitate my Purpose.

(Offers to embrace him, who starts back)
BRUTUS.
Rome! Virtue! Nature!

CÆSAR.
Nature! young Man, call it
By its sincerer Titles? call it Pride,
Self-soothing.—Hurl your Bolts, ye Gods! at Faction!
Faction!—that finds a Power to blot out Nature!

BRUTUS.
Spare an astonished Wretch, who lives too long.

CÆSAR.
Is there, who fears to be the Son of Cæsar?
Wretch, say'st thou?—to be born the World's next Heir,
And reap the Laurels of a Hundred Victories?

BRUTUS.
Oh, Cæsar!—

CÆSAR.
Lab'ring with a Will to speak,
Some infelt Horror checks thy rising Accents.

BRUTUS.
Cæsar!

CÆSAR.
Speak like my Son.

BRUTUS.
Wou'd I were dead.

CÆSAR.
Sounds Death more soft than Son?

BRUTUS.
Such if I am,
Brutus, unbow'd to Kings, may kneel to Cæsar.

[Kneels.
CÆSAR.
On.—

BRUTUS.
(Offering his Sword)
—Kill me;—or, forbear to be a King.

CÆSAR.
Thy very Soul's a Rebel:—not alone
To Power, but ev'en to Blood:—unatural Traitor!
Rise, and repent:—and, when thou think'st, like Man,
Be own'd Rome's Son, and mine:—till then, be Brutus.

(Turning to go.)
BRUTUS.
(Holding his Robe.)
Oh! stay.—I never can quit Claim to Cæsar:
Hear, if a Father, with a father's Ear;
Or, judge with a Friend's Heart, and ease my Horror.

CÆSAR.
Leave me.—My Heart is Adamant:—Away;—
My Blood grows warm against thee: Dread thy danger.
Be gone—or, I shall catch Disdain, from Thine,
Till, conqu'ring Pity, to repel Presumption,
To punish Insolence, I push back Nature.
Cæsar, at least, was born, to govern Brutus.

BRUTUS.
He was—he was—but not to govern Rome.

CÆSAR.
Headstrong Enthusiast! Stubborness, like Thine,
Embroils Republicks; and makes Tyrants needful:
Go: join thy savage Friends: chase Fear from Faction:
Bid Guilt sleep safe, in my Contempt of Treachery:
Their Conqueror stands subdued, by his own Mercy:
—Yet bid their Blindness learn, when Claims contend,
And Rights invaded rouse resenting Realms,
'Tis Fierceness, in the Free, most, hazards Freedom.
And Liberty is lost to punish Pride.

[Exit Cæsar.
BRUTUS.
(Rising)
Let me not leave him, tho' Despair has caught me:
But, following, sigh for Rome—and live for Cæsar.
Why was I born to think, and be unbless'd,
To licence Reason, is to forfeit Rest:
He, who assumes Distinction, calls for Woe;
Peace is a Cottage Claim, and loves the Low.
Nor Shame, nor Trust, nor Envy, finds us, there!
Hearts, fill'd with Quiet, leave no Void, for Care.