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The Works of John Sheffield

Earl of Mulgrave, Marquis of Normanby, and Duke of Buckingham. In two volumes ... The third edition, Corrected
  
  
  
  
  

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SCENE III.
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SCENE III.

Cæsar sits on a Seat above the rest; then rises up and speaks, while the Senators stand round him.
Now, rev'rend Lords, if any weighty Thoughts
Oppress your Minds, unload your Cares on me;
For that's a Burthen which belongs to Pow'r.

276

Is there a barb'rous People yet so rude,
Or so remote, as not to fear your Arms?
I'll make them join with all the World besides
In due Submission to superior Virtue.
Is that great Parthian King so haughty grown,
As not to reverence this awful Senate?
My Arms shall haste to humble all his Pride,
And bring him bowing to your least Commands.
Others, to raise themselves, depress their Country;
But my Ambition is to make your Valour
Shine out more bright to all the subject World.
Yet vain were all my Triumphs, if I should
Be fear'd abroad, and not be lov'd at home;
Therefore, what Enemy have I not pardon'd?
The Name of Foe excuses Hate, and Harm;
And he that fears it least, forgives it soonest.
Cold Friends, indeed, are something more provoking;
Yet I can pass them by with Scorn and Pity.
The equal Law shall run its even Course;
Nothing shall interpose, except my Mercy;
Justice herself may lean that way sometimes.
Plain Merit shall not languish unregarded,
While cunning Courtship steals away the Favour.
On this depend; and while I govern thus,
You will not grudge, if I shall govern long;

277

And not resign my Pow'r, like unlearn'd Sylla,
For want of Skill to use it.
Casca.
Oh! I can hold no longer.

[They all stab Cæsar, who struggles with them till he sees Brutus strike.
Cæsar.
What, Brutus too! Nay, then 'tis Time to die.

[Falls down, and covers himself with his Robes.
Brutus.
Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead.
Nay, stir not, worthy Lords, nor be amaz'd;
We mean no Harm to any Roman here:
Consul, retire, for fear the coming Crowd
Should press too much upon your rev'rend Age.

Cassius.
Run to the Streets, and cry out, Liberty!
Ring in their Ears aloud that pleasing Sound.
Stoop, Romans, stoop,
And let us bathe our Hands in Cæsar's Blood,
Bespot our Garments, and besmear our Swords;
Then walk we forth into the Market-place,
And waving our red Weapons o'er our Heads,

278

Cry out aloud, Freedom and Liberty!

Brutus.
The Deed is done, what need we triumph in it?