University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

BRUTUS, PROCULUS.
PROCULUS.
All the senate
Struck with sincerest grief, and thrill'd with horror
The dire event which on thy head—

BRUTUS.
No more:
Know'st thou not Brutus! Shall he now attend
The voice of consolation! Think whose arms
Surround us, with new-kindled rage again
Mars calls us to the field.—To Rome alone
My cares belong; she every thought inspires.
Away! Her sons in this disastrous hour
Demand that I should fill his vacant place
Whom I bade bleed for them. At least I thus
Shall reach the goal of my sad life, and die,
As Titus ought, the champion of my country.