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God will deliver me from every adversary. And thou too smilest.—Yes; he will deliver That which I call myself. For this poor form Which vests me round, I give it to destruction As gladly as the storm-beat traveller, Who, having reached his destined place of shelter, Drops at the door his mantle's cumbrous weight.

Then to thy visionary hopes I leave thee, Incorrigible man! Here, in this chamber Keep him secure till the appointed hour. (To the Officers, &c.) Off, good Sulpicius! hang not on me thus!

O, mighty Caesar! countermand your orders: Delay it but a month, a week, a day.

Noble Cordenius! can thy martial spirit Thus brook to be a public spectacle, Fighting with savage beasts, the sport of fools, Till thou shalt fall, deformed and horrible, Mangled and piece-meal torn? It must not be.