Page:Julius Caesar (1919) Yale.djvu/90

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Mes. Cicero is dead, And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Bru. No, Messala.

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Bru. Nothing, Messala.

Mes. That, methinks, is strange.

Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

Mes. No, my lord.

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala: With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now.

Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.

Cas. I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently?

Cas. I do not think it good.

Bru. Your reason?

Cas. This is it: 'Tis better that the enemy seek us: So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers. Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still, Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.  183 Nothing, Messala; cf. n. 190 once: some day 193 art: theory 195 alive: which concerns the living 202 force: necessity 