Act 3 — Act III sc. iv ACT. 3. SC. 3.

Bru. How long in base ignoble patience, Shall I behold my Countries wofull fall, O you braue Romains, and among’st the rest Most Noble Brutus, faire befall your soules: 1370 Let Peace and Fame your Honored graues awaite, Who through such perils, and such tedious warres, Won your great labors prise sweete liberty, But wee that with our life did freedoms take, And did no sooner Men, then free-men, breath: To loose it now continuing so long, And with such lawes, such vowes, such othes confirm’d Can nothing but disgrace and shame expect: But soft what see I written on my seate, O vtinam Brute viueres. 1380 What meaneth this, thy courage dead, But stay, reade forward, Brute mortuus es. I thou art dead indeed, thy courrage dead Thy care and loue thy dearest Country dead, Thy wonted spirit and Noble stomack dead.

Cassi. The times drawe neere by gratious heauens assignd When Philips Sonne must fall in Babilon, In his triumphing proud persumption: But see where melancholy Brutus walkes, 1390 Whose minde is hammering on no meane conceit: Then sound him Cassius, see how hee is inclined, How fares young Brutus in this tottering state. Bru. Euen as an idle gazer, that beholdes, His Countries wrackes and cannot succor bring. Cassi. But wil Brute alwaies in this dreame remaine, And not bee mooued with his Countries mone. Bru. O that I might in Lethes endles sleepe, And neere awaking pleasant rest of death Close vp mine eyes, that I no more might see, 1400 Poore Romes distresse and Countries misery. Casi. No Brutus liue, and wake thy sleepy minde, Stirre vp those dying sparkes of honors fire, VVhich in thy gentle breast weare wont to flame: See how poore Rome opprest with Countries wronges, Implores thine ayde, that bred thee to that end, Thy kins-mans soule from heauen commandes thine aide: That lastly must by thee receiue his end, Then purchas honor by a glorious death, Or liue renown’d by ending Cæsars life. 1410 Bru. I can no longer beare the Tirants pride, I cannot heare my Country crie for ayde, And not bee mooued with her pitious mone, Brutus thy soule shall neuer more complaine: That from thy linage and most vertuous stock, A bastard weake degenerat branch is borne, For to distaine the honor of thy house. No more shall now the Romains call me dead, Ile liue againe and rowze my sleepy thoughts: And with the Tirants death begin this life. 1420 Rome now I come to reare thy states decayed, VVhen or this hand shall cure thy fatall wound, Or else this heart by bleeding on the ground. Cas. Now heauen I see applaudes this enterprise, And Rhadamanth into the fatall Vrne, That lotheth death, hath thrust the Tirants name, Cæsar the life that thou in bloud hast led: Shall heape a bloudy vengance on thine head. Exeunt.