Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm,
To sell and mart your offices for gold,

[blocks in formation]

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers,- shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honors
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas.
Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,

To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru.

Cas. I am.

Go to; you are not, Cassius.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself:

Have mind upon your health; tempt me no further.

Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is 't possible?

Bru.

Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret, till your proud heart break;

Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for from this day forth.
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

[blocks in formation]

Bru. You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well: For mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me, every way you wrong me, Brutus; I said an elder soldier, not a better;

Did I say, better?

Bru.

If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not?

Bru. No.

Cas. What! durst not tempt him?

Bru.

For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;

For I am armed so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius?

Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

[blocks in formation]

I did not: he was but a fool

That brought my answer back.- Brutus hath rived my heart:
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru.

I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is a-weary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep

My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

Bru.
Sheath your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb

That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

Cas.
Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.

Cas.

Bru.

O Brutus!

What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Bru.

Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

- William Shakespeare.

SHAN VAN VOCHT

Shan Van Vocht: an Irish phrase meaning the Poor Old Woman; here personifying Ireland. The song was written just before the Irish rebellion

of 1798.

The sainted isle of old,

The parent and the mould

Of the beautiful and bold,

Has her sainted heart waxed cold?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Oh! the French are on the say,

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
The French are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Oh! the French are in the bay;
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

On the Currach of Kildare;

The boys they will be there

With their pikes in good repair,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they 'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?

And what color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

What color should be seen,
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Anonymous.

Friends!

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave! Not such as swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves! - slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords

« ElőzőTovább »