University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

A Hall in Cæsar's House.
CASSIUS. TORBILIUS.
(Crossing.)
CASSIUS.
Stay! turn!—The imperfect Dawn deceives my Sight,
Or, 'tis Torbilius.

TORBILIUS.
Cassius:

CASSIUS.
He!—How comes it,
I meet thee, in the House of hated Cæsar!

TORBILIUS.
Portia, to-night, was frighted, in a Dream;
And, hast'ning hither, to alarm Calphurnia,
Call'd for my Hand, to guide her.

CASSIUS.
In the Forum.
Expect strong Clash, this Morning.

TORBILIUS.
Will Cæsar, then,
Be King.

CASSIUS.
He will—yet, Dreams of a to-morrow.

TORBILIUS.
So dies, our Flot abortive.

CASSIUS.
Rather, die Cæsar!
Fix Brutus ours—and yon pale—rising Sun
Shall drink the Tyrant's Blood, before its setting.

TORBILIUS.
Speak softly.—'Tis an unsafe Scene, for Treason.

CASSIUS.
Not now.—The House is Desart.—Every Eye,
Busied remote, strays upward, from the Grove;
Hard, thro' dim Dawn, the Patient Augurs pore,
Watchful to teach mysterious Birds, to lie,
And mock insulted Heaven, to flatter Cæsar.

TORBILIUS.
Wait you the Auguries?

CASSIUS.
Away—light Questioner!
Brutus, and I, with more tame Slaves, call'd Senators,
Last Night, beseeching Audience, kingly Cæsar
Told us, fair Meanings shun'd the Shade of Night,
And bad us, when Day rose, attend his Pleasure:
I came a willing Hour too soon—for, oh!
Such a Discovery!—Such Intelligence!

TORBILIUS.
Whence flows it?

CASSIUS.
Whence do all Court Secrets flow?
Kings trust their Minions—and King-Blasters bribe 'em:
Cæsar, to-night, sat writing, till alarmed,
He heard Calphurnia shriek, and rose to aid her.
Left, in his Closet, lay a half transcrib'd,
And strangely—purpos'd Will:—wherein who (think'st thou)
But Brutus!—Our last Hope—Rome's freeborn Brutus!
Is nam'd the Tyrant's Son! and Heir of Empire!

TORBILIUS.
In Form of Will adopted?

CASSIUS.
Direly; adopted!
Own'd his true natural-born decendant Son,
By Cato's solemn Sister!—Curse her hypocrisy!
'Twas Ruin—to the Hopes of Rome, and Liberty.

TORBILIUS.
What Bribe had Power, to force a Friend from Cæsar.

CASSIUS.
Thy Friend, and mine—imperial Gold!—more Eloquent,
Than ten smooth Cæsars! bought a true King-Server
From his Lord's Bosom.—Opportunely near,
He caught the inviting Moment:—left his Covert,—
Read—started—sent to press my early coming,
And, private here, in the still dusk, disclosed it.

TORBILIUS.
Gods! What perfidious Friendships cheat Mankind!

CASSIUS.
Laugh, and be wise.—So, to betray, gives Greatness.
—Forget not thou, mean-while, to speed thy Charge:
Prepare cold Brutus for the Day's Impression:
Swell him, with all his prais'd Forefather's Pride;
Fume his enhaling Soul with Flatte'ry's Incence,
And share divided Rome's best Hopes, with Cassius

TORBILIUS.
Why must Rome's Hopes depend on One Man's Aid?

CASSIUS.
All Men are Ours in Brutus.—Thou, and I,
And every Roman, leagu'd, to cut off Cæsar,
Hate Cæsar.—Every burning Breast, but His,
Has sep'arate, infelt, private Cause, for Malice:
Who will believe, we strike for Rome.—So known,
So mark'd, malignant to the Name of Cæsar?
Brutus is Cæsar's Idol!—and loves Cæsar!
His Aid will consecrate Revenge to Virtue.
He can, when Cæsar bleeds, turn Tears to Triumph,
And blot the whitest Star, that lights his Character.

TORBILIUS.
But this is Baseness, Cassius!—grant it needful,
The Man shou'd die—why must we kill his Virtues?
Why, to oppose his reigning, must we rob
His natural Rights?—why shade the Soul, he shines by?
No—let us own the Beauties of his Heart:
Weeping, confess his Brave'ry, Tempe'rence, Pity,
Long patient Courtings of rejected Peace—
Yet—dreadful Darings, in Contempt of Danger?
Else, we shall spot Laws Face, with Marks of Envy,
Treating this vastness of a Mind, like Heaven's,
As if keen-ey'd for Guilt, but blind to Goodness.

CASSIUS.
Perish his Goodness!—grind my Ear no more
With his curst Qualities:—I hate his Power:
I hate myself—hate Rome—hate Life, Joy, Victory,
Hate every Hope, but one.—to make Him feel,
That slighted Cassius drew down Fate on Cæsar.
This let me live to teach him—Then,—tho' Rome,
Sunk, round me, till her tumbling Capital
Smoak'd, for my funeral Pile.—'Twere Death, with Glory.

TORBILIUS.
Cassius! my Soul, less fiery, cannot strain
Resentment into Frenzy:—In my Sense,
Reason, not Rage, shou'd measure Plotter's Passions.
Be temperate, or

CASSIUS.
(Hastily.)
By Heaven! he comes! yon Gallery
Sounds, with his Step.—The holy Farce is ended:
Poet,—farewell.—
[Exit Cassius.

TORBILIUS.
(alone.)
Farewell, detested Envy!
Motives like thine, turn Justice into Murder.
Something shall, strait, be done.—Cæsar! be safe:
He, who forgave my Guilt, demands my Virtue.

[Exit.