Act 2, Scene 1

Original Text

*Brutus's orchard. Enter Brutus.* BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius! *Enter Lucius.* LUCIUS. Called you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius. When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. *Exit.*

Modern English

*Brutus's garden, before dawn. Brutus enters alone.* BRUTUS. Lucius! Hey, Lucius! I can't figure out from the position of the stars how close it is to daylight. Lucius, I said! I wish I had his excuse for sleeping so soundly. Come on, Lucius! Wake up! Lucius! *Lucius enters, half asleep.* LUCIUS. Did you call, my lord? BRUTUS. Light a candle in my study, Lucius. When it's lit, come back and get me. LUCIUS. Yes, my lord. *He exits.*

Original Text

BRUTUS. It must be by his death. And for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crowned. How that might change his nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him that, And then I grant we put a sting in him That at his will he may do danger with. Th' abuse of greatness is when it disjoins Remorse from power. And, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections swayed More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may. Then, lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities; And therefore think him as a serpent's egg, Which, hatched, would as his kind grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell.

Modern English

BRUTUS. It has to be done — he has to die. Personally, I have no reason to hold anything against him; my concern is for Rome as a whole. He wants to be crowned. Whether the crown would change who he is — that's the question. Bright daylight is what draws the snake out of hiding, and that calls for careful walking. Crown him, and I'll admit we've put a venomous sting in him that he could use to do damage at will. Power becomes dangerous when it separates compassion from authority. And to be fair to Caesar, I've never known a time when his emotions overruled his judgment. But it's a well-known fact that humility is simply the ladder ambitious men climb; they face upward while they're ascending, but once they reach the top rung, they turn their backs on the ladder and look down on the lower steps they used to get there. Caesar might do the same. So, to prevent that possibility, we act. And since we can't justify it based on what he is right now, we frame it this way: imagine what he could become, taken to extremes. Think of him as a serpent's egg — once it hatches, the creature turns dangerous, as serpents do. Better to kill it in the shell.

Original Text

*Enter Lucius.* LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus sealed up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. *Gives him the letter.* BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. *Exit.*

Modern English

*Lucius returns.* LUCIUS. The candle is burning in your study, sir. While I was looking by the window for a flint, I found this sealed letter. I'm certain it wasn't there when I went to bed. *He hands over the letter.* BRUTUS. Go back to bed; it's not morning yet. Isn't tomorrow the Ides of March, boy? LUCIUS. I'm not sure, sir. BRUTUS. Check the calendar and let me know. LUCIUS. Yes, sir. *He exits.*

Original Text

BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air, Give so much light that I may read by them. *Opens the letter and reads.* "Brutus, thou sleep'st. Awake, and see thyself! Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress! Brutus, thou sleep'st. Awake!" Such instigations have been often dropped Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, etc." Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive when he was called a king. "Speak, strike, redress!" Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus.

Modern English

BRUTUS. These strange lights streaking through the air are bright enough for me to read by. *He opens the letter and reads.* "Brutus, you sleep. Wake up, and see yourself for what you are! Shall Rome — Speak, strike, set things right! Brutus, you sleep. Awake!" Letters like this have been showing up regularly in places where I'd find them. "Shall Rome — " Let me work out the rest: Shall Rome live in fear of one man? What kind of Rome is that? My ancestors drove the Tarquin king from the streets of Rome when he tried to be king. "Speak, strike, set things right!" Am I being called on to speak out and take action? O Rome, I promise you: if justice will follow, you'll get everything you're asking for — from Brutus.

Original Text

*Enter Lucius.* LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. *Knock within.* BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks. *Exit Lucius.* Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream. The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council, and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

Modern English

*Lucius returns.* LUCIUS. Sir, it's the fifteenth of March. *A knock at the gate.* BRUTUS. Good. Go answer the gate; someone's knocking. *Lucius exits.* Ever since Cassius first turned my mind against Caesar, I haven't been able to sleep. The time between deciding to do something terrible and actually doing it — that whole stretch feels like a nightmare you can't wake from. The soul and the body argue with each other, and a person's inner state becomes like a small kingdom suffering through its own civil war.

Original Text

*Enter Lucius.* LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir. Their hats are plucked about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter. *Exit Lucius.* They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability, For if thou path thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.

Modern English

*Lucius returns.* LUCIUS. Sir, it's your brother-in-law Cassius at the door. He wants to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir — there are others with him. BRUTUS. Do you recognize them? LUCIUS. No, sir. They've pulled their hats down over their ears, and half their faces are hidden by their cloaks. There's no way I could identify them from any feature I could see. BRUTUS. Let them in. *Lucius exits.* They're the conspirators. Oh, conspiracy — are you ashamed to show your dangerous face at night, when evil roams most freely? Then where, during the day, would you find a cave dark enough to hide your ugly face? Don't bother looking, conspiracy. Disguise yourself behind smiles and friendliness, because if you walk around looking like what you really are, even the darkest pit of hell wouldn't be dim enough to keep you from being caught.

Original Text

*Enter the Conspirators: Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius.* CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest. Good morrow, Brutus. Do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them, and no man here But honours you, and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This, Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? *They whisper.*

Modern English

*The conspirators enter: Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius.* CASSIUS. I think we're being too bold, disturbing your rest. Good morning, Brutus. Are we bothering you? BRUTUS. I've been up for an hour — awake all night. Do I know these men who've come with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every one of them. And there's not a man here who doesn't respect you deeply. Every one of them wishes you held the same high opinion of yourself that every noble Roman holds of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He's welcome here. CASSIUS. This is Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. Welcome to him too. CASSIUS. This is Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. All welcome. What anxious thoughts are keeping you men from sleeping tonight? CASSIUS. Could I have a private word? *They step aside and whisper.*

Original Text

BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath! If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse — If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? What other bond Than secret Romans that have spoke the word And will not palter? And what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged That this shall be, or we will fall for it?

Modern English

BRUTUS. Give me all your hands, each of you in turn. CASSIUS. And let's swear an oath to see this through. BRUTUS. No — no oath! If the suffering on men's faces, the anguish in our souls, the corruption of these times — if those aren't motivation enough, then let's quit right now and every man go back to his comfortable bed. Let tyranny run rampant until we all fall dead, one by one, by chance. But if these injustices — and I'm certain they do — burn hot enough to give courage to cowards and steel the nerves of even the most timid, then, fellow Romans, what spur do we need beyond our own cause to drive us to set things right? What bond do we need other than being Romans who have given our word and won't go back on it? What oath do we need beyond honest men pledging to honest men that we'll see this through, or die trying?

Original Text

CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion And buy men's voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said his judgement ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not! Let us not break with him, For he will never follow anything That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed he is not fit.

Modern English

CASSIUS. What about Cicero? Should we approach him? I think he'd be a strong ally. CASCA. We shouldn't leave him out. CINNA. Absolutely not. METELLUS. Oh, we should include him — his grey hair will buy us credibility and make people approve of what we've done. People will say his wisdom guided our hands; our youth and recklessness won't show at all, buried under his respectability. BRUTUS. Don't even mention him. We can't bring him in — he'll never follow someone else's lead on anything. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. He's not the right fit anyway.

Original Text

DECIUS. Shall no man else be touched but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urged. I think it is not meet Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar. We shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all. Which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let's be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.

Modern English

DECIUS. Should no one else be targeted besides Caesar? CASSIUS. Good point, Decius. I don't think we should let Mark Antony, who's so devoted to Caesar, survive him. We'll find that he's a clever schemer, and you know his resources — if he puts them to use — could easily be turned against all of us. To prevent that, let Antony fall with Caesar. BRUTUS. That would make our plan look too bloodthirsty, Caius Cassius — cutting off the head and then hacking at the limbs, like killing in anger and then desecrating the body out of spite. Antony is just an extension of Caesar. Let's be sacrificers, not butchers, Caius. We're all taking a stand against the spirit of Caesar, and there's no blood in a man's spirit. If only we could destroy Caesar's ambition without destroying Caesar himself! But unfortunately, Caesar has to bleed for it. And, friends, let's kill him with purpose, but not with hatred; let's carve him like a dish worthy of the gods, not hack at him like a carcass fit for dogs.

Original Text

And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage And after seem to chide 'em. This shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious; Which, so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be called purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I fear him, For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar — BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him. If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself — take thought and die for Caesar; And that were much he should, for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him. Let him not die; For he will live and laugh at this hereafter. *Clock strikes.*

Modern English

And let's be like clever masters who stir their servants up to do violent work and then act shocked afterward. That way, our purpose will look necessary rather than vindictive, and in the public eye we'll be called healers, not murderers. As for Mark Antony, don't worry about him. He can do no more than Caesar's arm can do once Caesar's head has been cut off. CASSIUS. Still, I'm worried about him, because of the deep affection he has for Caesar — BRUTUS. Please, Cassius, don't worry about Antony. If he loves Caesar, the worst he'll do is turn his grief on himself and die of sorrow — and even that's a stretch, since he's the type who lives for sports, parties, and socializing. TREBONIUS. There's nothing to fear from him. Let him live; he'll look back on all this someday and laugh. *A clock strikes in the distance.*

Original Text

BRUTUS. Peace! Count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no, For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustomed terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold him from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Never fear that. If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Modern English

BRUTUS. Quiet! Count the bells. CASSIUS. It's struck three. TREBONIUS. Time to go. CASSIUS. But we're still not sure whether Caesar will actually come out today. He's grown superstitious lately, a complete reversal from how he used to dismiss omens, dreams, and ceremonies. The bizarre events tonight, the unusual terror in the air, and his fortune-tellers' warnings might keep him home from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Don't worry about that. If he's decided to stay home, I can talk him out of it. He loves hearing that unicorns can be trapped using trees, bears with mirrors, elephants with pits, lions with nets, and men with flattery. But when I tell him he hates flattery, he agrees — which is, of course, the moment he's being flattered most. Leave it to me. I know how to steer his moods in the right direction, and I'll get him to the Capitol.

Original Text

CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour; is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey. I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him. He loves me well, and I have given him reasons. Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon's. We'll leave you, Brutus, And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so good morrow to you every one. *Exeunt all but Brutus.*

Modern English

CASSIUS. We'll all go together to bring him. BRUTUS. By eight o'clock — is that the latest? CINNA. Eight o'clock, without fail. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius has a grudge against Caesar, who publicly shamed him for saying good things about Pompey. I'm surprised none of you have thought to include him. BRUTUS. Good idea, Metellus — go talk to him. He's fond of me, and I've given him reasons to act. Just send him here, and I'll bring him on board. CASSIUS. Morning is coming. We'll leave you now, Brutus. Everyone, scatter — but remember what you've committed to, and prove yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Gentlemen, keep your expressions bright and cheerful. Don't let your faces reveal our intentions. Carry yourselves the way Roman actors do — with steady energy and composed dignity. And with that, good morning to each of you. *Everyone exits except Brutus.*

Original Text

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. *Enter Portia.* PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

Modern English

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? Never mind. Enjoy that deep, sweet heaviness of sleep. Your mind isn't haunted by worries or dark imaginings the way the minds of men burdened with cares are. That's why you sleep so peacefully. *Portia enters.* PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia? What are you doing up? Why are you out of bed? You shouldn't be exposing yourself to the cold of an early morning when you're not well.

Original Text

PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper You suddenly arose and walked about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I asked you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks. I urged you further; then you scratched your head And too impatiently stamped with your foot. Yet I insisted; yet you answered not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seemed too much enkindled, and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevailed on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

Modern English

PORTIA. You shouldn't be either. You crept out of our bed without any warning, Brutus. And last night at supper you suddenly stood up and started pacing, brooding and sighing, with your arms folded. When I asked you what was wrong, you just stared at me with a hard expression. I pressed you further; you scratched your head and stamped your foot impatiently. I kept asking; you said nothing, just waved your hand angrily as a signal for me to leave. So I did, afraid that pushing harder would only make your agitation worse, and hoping it was just a passing mood — the kind everyone has from time to time. But it won't let you eat, or talk, or sleep. And if it were affecting your body as much as it's clearly affecting your state of mind, I wouldn't even recognize you. Dear husband, tell me what's causing you this grief.

Original Text

BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick? And is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus, You have some sick offence within your mind, Which by the right and virtue of my place I ought to know of. And upon my knees I charm you, by my once-commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

Modern English

BRUTUS. I'm just not feeling well. That's all. PORTIA. Brutus is smart enough that if he were sick, he'd do something about it. BRUTUS. That's what I'm doing. Go back to bed, Portia. PORTIA. Is Brutus truly sick? Because is it good medicine to walk around with your shirt open, breathing in the damp, unhealthy morning air? Really, is Brutus sick? Would he sneak out of his warm bed to face the dangerous chill of the night and deliberately breathe in this raw, foul air, just to make himself sicker? No, Brutus — you have a sickness in your mind, and by my rights as your wife, I deserve to know what it is. On my knees, I beg you — by the beauty you once praised in me, by every vow of love you've ever made, and by the sacred vow that joined us and made us one person — tell me, your other half, what's weighing on you, and who those men were who came to see you tonight. There were six or seven of them, and they hid their faces from even the darkness itself.

Original Text

BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so fathered and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh. Can I bear that with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! *Knock.* Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile, And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. *Exit Portia.*

Modern English

BRUTUS. Don't kneel, sweet Portia. PORTIA. I wouldn't have to if you were being kind, Brutus. Tell me this — within the bond of our marriage, is there an exception that says I shouldn't share in your secrets? Am I your other self only in a limited, conditional way? Good enough to sit beside you at meals, warm your bed, and make conversation now and then? Do I live only on the outskirts of your real life? If that's all I am, then Portia is Brutus's mistress, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honorable wife, as precious to me as the blood that flows through my own heart. PORTIA. If that were really true, you'd trust me with this secret. Yes, I'm a woman — but I'm also the woman Lord Brutus chose to marry. I'm a woman, yes — but a woman with a fine reputation, the daughter of Cato. Do you think I'm weaker than my sex, given who my father was and who my husband is? Tell me what's going on. I won't betray your trust. I've already proven how strong I am — I gave myself this wound in the thigh, deliberately. If I can endure that pain in silence, can't I handle my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. Oh, gods, make me worthy of this extraordinary wife! *A knock at the gate.* Listen — someone's knocking. Portia, go inside for a moment. Soon enough, I'll share with you everything that's in my heart. I'll explain every commitment I've made, every worry that's written on my face. Go quickly now. *Portia exits.*

Original Text

*Enter Lucius and Ligarius.* Lucius, who's that knocks? LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome, Brave son, derived from honourable loins, Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What's to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee as we are going To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. *Thunder.* BRUTUS. Follow me then. *Exeunt.*

Modern English

*Lucius enters with Ligarius.* Lucius, who's at the door? LUCIUS. A sick man who wants to speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius — the one Metellus mentioned. Step aside, boy. Caius Ligarius, how are you? LIGARIUS. Please accept a good morning from a weak voice. BRUTUS. What a time you've picked to be wearing a sick man's bandage, brave Caius! I wish you weren't ill. LIGARIUS. I'm not sick — not if Brutus has in mind some venture worthy of the name of honor. BRUTUS. I have exactly such a venture, Ligarius, if you've got a healthy enough ear to hear about it. LIGARIUS. By every god that Romans pray to, I throw off my sickness right now! Soul of Rome! Brave son of an honorable family — you're like a healer who has called my dying spirit back to life. Tell me to run, and I'll take on the impossible — and win. What needs to be done? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will cure sick men. LIGARIUS. But aren't there some healthy men we'll need to make sick? BRUTUS. That too. I'll explain the details, Caius, as we walk to where it needs to happen, and who the target is. LIGARIUS. Lead the way. With a heart burning fresh, I'll follow you to do whatever it is — I don't need to know the details. It's enough that Brutus is leading me. *Thunder.* BRUTUS. Then follow me. *They exit.*

Julius Caesar

Act 2, Scene 1

Act 2, Scene 1