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THE TRAGEDIE OF

JULIUS CÆSAR.

Actus Primus. Scana 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?

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THE TRAGEDIE OF

JULIUS CAESAR.

Actus Primus, Scana Prim

Enter Flavius, Murellus, and certaine Commons to the i
Flavius.

Ence: home you illo Casa, y plow cy
Is this a Holiday to prod
(Being Mechanical, your vergne med wi
Upon a lasing boy, when a p

CE Tour Profession beau, and the
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Cob. Why sir, Cobble you.

Fla. Thou art a Cobler, art thou?

Cob. Truly sir, all that I live by, is with the Aule: I meddle with no Tradesmans matters, nor womens matters; but withal I am indeed Sir, a Surgeon to old shooes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon 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 selfe into more worke. But indeede sir, we make Holyday to see Casar, 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:

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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,

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