Whom you your selves shall set out for reproofe,
Fall and no more; and to attone your feares
With my more Noble meaning, not a man
Shall passe his quarter, or offend the streame
Of Regular Justice in your Citties bounds,
But shall be remedied to your publique Lawes

Mes. My Noble Generall, Timon is dead,
Entomb'd upon the very hemme o'th'Sea,
And on his Gravestone, this Insculpture which
With wax I brought away: whose soft Impression
Interprets for my poore ignorance.

Alcibiades reades the Epitaph.

Heere lies a wretched Coarse, of wretched Soule bereft,
Seek not my name. A Plague consume you, wicked Caitifs left :
Heere lye I Timon, who alive, all living men did hate,

Passe by, and curse thy fill, but passe and stay not here thy gate.
These well expresse in thee thy latter spirits :

Though thou abhorrd'st in us our humane griefes,
Scornd'st our Braines flow, and those our droplets, which
From niggard Nature fall; yet Rich Conceit
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weepe for aye
On thy low Grave, on faults forgiven. Dead
Is noble Timon, of whose Memorie

Heereafter more. Bring me into your Citie,
And I will use the Olive, with my Sword:
Make war breed peace; make peace stint war, make each

Prescribe to other, as each others Leach.

Let our Drummes strike.

Exeunt.

FINIS.

THE TRAGEDIE OF

JULIUS CÆSAR.

Actus Primus. Scœna Prima.

Enter Flavius, Murellus, and certaine Commoners over the Stage. Flavius.

Ence: home you idle Creatures, get you home :
Is this a Holiday? What, know you not
(Being Mechanicall) you ought not walke
Upon a labouring day, without the signe
Of your Profession? Speake, what Trade art thou ?
Car. Why Sir, a Carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy Leather Apron, and thy Rule ?

What dost thou with thy best Apparrell on ?

You sir, what Trade are you?

Cobl. Truely Sir, in respect of a fine Workman, I am but as

you would say, a Cobler.

Mur. But what Trade art thou ? Answer me directly.

Cob. A Trade Sir, that I hope I may use, with a safe Conscience, which is indeed Sir, a Mender of bad soules.

Fla. What Trade thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what Trade?

Cobl. Nay I beseech you Sir, be not out with me: yet if you be out Sir, I can mend you.

Mur. What mean'st thou by that? Mend mee, thou sawcy Fellow?

Cob. Why sir, Cobble you.

Fla. Thou art a Cobler, art thou ?

Cob. Truly sir, all that I live by, is with the Aule with no Tradesmans matters, nor womens matters; bu am indeed Sir, a Surgeon to old shooes: when they a danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever Neats Leather, have gone upon my handy-worke.

Fla. But wherefore art not in thy Shop to day? Why do'st thou leade these men about the streets? Cob. Truly sir, to weare out their shooes, to get my more worke. But indeede sir, we make Holyday to se and to rejoyce in his Triumph.

Mur. Wherefore rejoyce?

What Conquest brings he home?

What Tributaries follow him to Rome,

To grace in Captive bonds his Chariot Wheeles ?
You Blockes, you stones, you worse then senslesse things
O you hard hearts, you cruell men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey many a time and oft?
Have you climb'd up to Walles and Battlements,
To Towres and Windowes? Yea, to Chimney tops,
Your Infants in your Armes, and there have sate
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey passe the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his Chariot but appeare,
Have you not made an Universall shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath her bankes
To heare the replication of your sounds,
Made in her Concave Shores?

And do you now put on your best attyre?
And do you now cull out a Holyday?
And do you now strew Flowers in his way,
That comes in Triumph over Pompeyes blood?
Be gone,

Runne to your houses, fall upon your knees,