Act 2 — Scene 1The Tragedy of Julius Caesar

Page 20 of 57

Page 20

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 your self 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 father’d 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.) Enter Lucius with 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 conjur’d 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?
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