Зображення сторінки

Bru. Go to! you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more; I shall forget myself:
Have mind upon your health: tempt me no farther.

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. Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart

break: Go, show


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 humour? 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.

Cas. Is it come to this?

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


better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved


Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him.
Cas. I durst not !-
Bru. No.


Cas. What! durst not tempt him?
Bru. For


durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love,
may do that I shall be sorry

Bru. You have done that

should be


There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd 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
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By heavens! 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

for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me! Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd 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 in pieces.

Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not: he was a fool
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not. Still 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 did 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;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed;
Set in a notebook, learn'd and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. Oh, 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 need'st a Roman’s, 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 lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru. Sheath your dagger.
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope:
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour,
O Cassius, you are yoked with a man
That carries anger as the flint bears fire,
Who, much enforced, shows but 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-temper'd vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.

[Embracing. Cas. O Brutus! Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour 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.


England is as classic ground to an American, as Italy is to an Englishman; and old London teems with as much historical association as mighty Rome. Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on landing among English scenes. H for the first time, sees a world about which he has been reading and thinking in every stage of his existence. The recollected ideas of infancy, youth, and manhood; of the nursery, the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him; and his attention is distracted between great and little objects; each of which, perhaps, awakens an equally delightful train of remembrances.

But what more especially attracts his notice, are those peculiarities which distinguish an old country, and an old state of society, from a new one.

I have never yet grown familiar enough with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense interest with which I at first beheld them. Accustomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in anticipation; where every thing in art was new and progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past; where, in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young existence and prospective improvement; there was something inexpressibly touching in the sight of enormous piles of architecture, gray with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm, with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height, a mere hollow, yet threatening phantom of departed power. They spread a grand, a melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm over the landscape. I for the first time beheld signs

of national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the transient and perishing glories of art, amidst the everspringing and reviving fertility of nature.

But, in fact, to me every thing was full of matter: the footsteps of history were every where to be traced; and poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the delightful freshness of feeling of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a set of inhabitants, and a mode of life, for every habitation that I saw; from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary parks, to the strawthatched cottage, with its scanty garden, and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted with verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy pasture, and the honeysuckled hedge. I was continually conning upon some little document of poetry, in the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some other simple object, that has received a supernatural value from the muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered associations, than by the melody of its notes; and I shall never forget the thrill of ecstacy with which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its mercurial flight up to the morning sky.


Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!

My minstrels are the trees,
The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls,

Earth's sounds my symphonies.

There's music sweeter to my soul

In the weed by the wild wind fann'da

« НазадПродовжити »