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CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE-Continued

SHAKSPERE'S LIFE AND Works.

CONTEMPORARY HISTORY AND LITERATURE (ENGLISH AND FOREIGN).

1609. Troilus and Cressida, Pericles, and 1609. Dekker's Gull's Horn-book. Jonthe Sonnets published.

1610. A performance of Macbeth noted under date of April 20, in the MS. diary of Dr. Simon Forman.

son's The Silent Woman. Douay translation of the Bible. Jonson's The Alchemist.

1610. 1611. Chapman's Iliad (complete). The Authorised Version of the Bible. 1612. Bacon's Essays (Second Edition). Webster's The White Devil.

1613. Jeremy Taylor born. 1614. Chapman's Odyssey (i—xii). Jonson's Bartholomew Fair. Napier's Logarithmorum Canonis Descriptio. Raleigh's History of the World.

1615.

1616. Feb. 10. His daughter Judith mar-1616.
ried. April 23, he died. Is buried
in the church at Stratford-on-
Avon.

1622. Othello published. 1623. The first edition of Shakspere's plays (the first folio) published. Pericles is omitted. In the volume are printed, for the first time so far as we know, The Tempest, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Measure for Measure, Comedy of Errors, As You Like It, The Taming of the Shrew, All's Well that Ends Well, Twelfth Night, Winter's Tale; King John, 1, 2, 3; Henry VI, Henry VIII, Coriolanus, Timon of Athens, Julius Cæsar, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra, and Cymbeline.

Don Quixote (part ii). Chapman's
Odyssey (xiii–xxiv).
Beaumont and Cervantes died.
Harvey lectured on the circula-
tion of the blood. Webster's
The Duchess of Malfi. Jonson's
Works (vol. i, folio edition).

JULIUS CÆSAR

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FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, tribunes.

ARTEMIDORUS of Cnidos, a teacher of Rhetoric.

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SCENE: Rome: the neighbourhood of Sardis: the neighbourhood of

Philippi.

ACT FIRST.

SCENE I.-Rome. A street.

Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain Commoners.

FLAVIUS.

home:

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you

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 COMMONER. Why, sir, a carpenter.

MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?

You, sir, what trade are you?

SECOND COMMONER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

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MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? answer me directly.

SECOND COMMONER.

A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

SECOND COMMONER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow !

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SECOND COMMONER. Why, sir, cobble you.
FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

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 neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? 30

Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND COMMONER. 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. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings

he home?

What tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?

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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 live-long 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,
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!

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