Act I. Scene
I.
Act I. Scene I.—Rome. A Street.
Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain
Commoners.
Flav. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get
you home:
Is this a holiday? What! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day without the sign
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?
First Com. Why, sir, a carpenter.
Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy
rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
You, sir, what trade are you?
First Com. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine
workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
Mar. But what trade art thou? Answer me
directly.
Sec. Com. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use
with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a
mender of bad soles.
Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty
knave, what trade?
Sec. Com. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out
with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
Mar. What meanest thou by that? Mend
me, thou saucy fellow!
Sec. Com. Why, sir, cobble you.
Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
Sec. Com. 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, in-
deed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are
in great danger, I recover them. As proper men
as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon
my handiwork.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-
day?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
Sec. Com. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes,
to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir,
we make holiday to see Cæsar and to rejoice in
his triumph.
Mar. 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!
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
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 a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
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,
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.
Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this
fault
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 whe'r their basest metal be not mov'd;
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.
Mar. May we do so?
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
Flav. It is no matter; let no images
Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. I'll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets:
So do you too where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Cæsar's
wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile tearfulness. [Exeunt.
|
