Rome. A street.
Enter FLAVIUS, MARULLUS, and certain Commoners
Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:Is this a holiday? what! know you not,Being
mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession? Speak, what
trade art thou?
Why, sir, a carpenter.
Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?What dost thou with thy best apparel on?You, sir, what
trade are you?
Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but,as you would say, a cobbler.
But what trade art thou? answer me directly.
A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safeconscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad
What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?
Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet,if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!
Why, sir, cobble you.
Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: Imeddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women'smatters,
but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeonto old shoes; when they are in great danger, Irecover them. As
proper men as ever trod uponneat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.
But wherefore art not in thy shop today?Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myselfinto more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday,to
see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.
Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?What tributaries follow him to Rome,To
grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?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 oftHave you climb'd
up to walls and battlements,To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,Your infants in your arms,
and there have satThe livelong 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 soundsMade 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
wayThat comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone!Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,Pray
to the gods to intermit the plagueThat needs must light on this ingratitude.
Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,Assemble all the poor men of your sort;Draw them
to Tiber banks, and weep your tearsInto the channel, till the lowest streamDo kiss the most exalted shores
Exeunt all the Commoners
See whether their basest metal be not moved;They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.Go
you down that way towards the Capitol;This way will I disrobe the images,If you do find them deck'd with
May we do so?You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
It is no matter; let no imagesBe hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about,And drive away the vulgar
from the streets:So do you too, where you perceive them thick.These growing feathers pluck'd from
Caesar's wingWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,Who else would soar above the view of menAnd keep
us all in servile fearfulness.
Next: Act 1 Scene 2
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