W. CREECH, J. & J.. FAIRBAIRN, AND

T. DUNCAN, BOOKSELLERS.

160920

ACTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

1899.

SCENE, for the three first acis, at Rome; afterwards, at an ifle \near Mutina, at Sardis, and Philippi.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A fireet in Rome.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners.

Flav. HENCE; home, you idle creatures, get you

home.

Is this a holiday? what! know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a labouring day, without the fign
Of your profeffion? Speak, what trade-art thou ?
VOL. VII.

A

T

Car.

Car. Why, Sir, a carpenter.

Mar. Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What doft thou with thy beft apparel on?

You, Sir,What trade are you?

Cob. Truly, Sir, in refpect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would fay, a cobler.

Mar. But what trade art thou? Anfwer me directly. Gob. A trade, Sir, that I hope I may use with a safe confcience; which is indeed, Sir, a mender of bad foals.

Flav. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

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

Flav. What mean'ft thou by that? mend me, thou faucy fellow?

Cob. Why, Sir, coble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

Cob. Truly, Sir, all that I live by, is the awl. I meddle with no mens' matters, nor woman's matters; but withal I am, indeed, Sir, a furgeon to old fhoes when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neats-lether have gone upon my handy-work.

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy fhop to-day? Why doft thou lead these men about the streets?

Cob. "Truly, Sir, to wear out their fhoes, to get "myself into more work." But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to fee Cæfar, and to rejoice in his triumph. Mar. Wherefore rejoice!-what conqueft brings he What tributaries follow him to Rome, [home? To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than fenfeless things! O you hard hearts! you cruel men of Rome! Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,' Your infants in your arms; and there have fat The live-long day with patient expectation, To fee great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you faw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an univerfal fhout,

That