Second Commoner | |
Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I | |
| | meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's | |
| | matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon | |
| | to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I | |
| | recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon | 25 |
| | neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork. | |
MARULLUS | |
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? | |
| | What tributaries follow him to Rome, | |
| | To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? | |
| | You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! | 35 |
| | O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, | |
| | Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft | |
| | Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, | |
| | To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, | |
| | Your infants in your arms, and there have sat | 40 |
| | The livelong day, with patient expectation, | |
| | To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome: | |
| | And when you saw his chariot but appear, | |
| | Have you not made an universal shout, | |
| | That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, | 45 |
| | To hear the replication of your sounds | |
| | Made in her concave shores? | |
| | And do you now put on your best attire? | |
| | And do you now cull out a holiday? | |
| | And do you now strew flowers in his way | 50 |
| | That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! | |
| | Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, | |
| | Pray to the gods to intermit the plague | |
| | That needs must light on this ingratitude. | |
FLAVIUS | |
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, | 55 |
| | Assemble all the poor men of your sort; | |
| | Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears | |
| | Into the channel, till the lowest stream | |
| | Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. | |
| | [Exeunt all the Commoners] |
| | See whether their basest metal be not moved; | 60 |
| | They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. | |
| | Go you down that way towards the Capitol; | |
| | This way will I disrobe the images, | |
| | If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. | |
FLAVIUS | |
It is no matter; let no images | |
| | Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about, | |
| | And drive away the vulgar from the streets: | |
| | So do you too, where you perceive them thick. | 70 |
| | These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing | |
| | Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, | |
| | Who else would soar above the view of men | |
| | And keep us all in servile fearfulness. | |
| | [Exeunt] |
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