Scene III A Public Place in Rome
Enter Brutus.
Brutus.
Murder the king! a high and capital treason.
Those giants that waged war against the gods,
For which the o’erwhelmed mountains hurled by Jove
To scatter them, and give them timeless13 graves,
Was not more cruel than this butchery,
This slaughter made by Tarquin. But the queen!
A woman—fie, fie! did not this she-parricide
Add to her father’s wounds? and when his body
Lay all besmeared and stained in the blood royal,
Did not this monster, this infernal hag,
Make her unwilling charioter drive on,
And with his shod wheels crush her father’s bones,
Break his crazed skull, and dash his sparkled14 brains
Upon the pavements, whilst she held the reins?
The affrighted sun at this abhorrèd object
Put on a mask of blood, and yet she blushed not.
Jove, art thou just? hast thou reward for piety,
And for offence no vengeance? or canst punish
Felons, and pardon traitors? chastise murderers,
And wink at parricides? if thou be worthy,
As well we know thou art, to fill the throne
Of all eternity, then with that hand
That flings the trifurk15 thunder, let the pride
Of these our irreligious monarchisers
Be crowned in blood. This makes poor Brutus mad,—
To see sin frolic, and the virtuous sad.
Enter Sextus and Aruns.
Aruns.
Soft, here’s Brutus; let us acquaint him with the news.
Sextus.
Content. Now, cousin Brutus.
Brutus.
Who, I your kinsman! though I be of the blood of the Tarquins, yet no cousin, gentle prince.
Aruns.
And why so, Brutus? scorn you our alliance?
Brutus.
No; I was cousin to the Tarquins when they were subjects, but dare claim no kindred as they are sovereigns; Brutus is not so mad, though he be merry, but he hath wit enough to keep his head on his shoulders.
Aruns.
Why do you, my lord, thus lose your hours, and neither profess war nor domestic profit? the first might beget you love, the other riches.
Brutus.
Because I would live. Have I not answered you? because I would live. Fools and madmen are no rubs16 in the way of usurpers; the firmament can brook but one sun, and for my part I must not shine: I had rather live an obscure black than appear a fair white to be shot at. The end of all is, I would live. Had Servius been a shrub, the wind had not shook him: or a madman, he had not perished. I covet no more wit nor employment than as much as will keep life and soul together—I would but live.
Aruns.
You are satirical, cousin Brutus: but to the purpose. The king dreamt a strange and ominous dream last night, and, to be resolved of the event, my brother Sextus and I must to the oracle.
Sextus.
And, because we would be well accompanied, we have got leave of the king that you, Brutus, shall associate us, for our purpose is to make a merry journey on’t.
Brutus.
So you’ll carry me along with you to be your fool, and make you merry.
Sextus.
Not our fool, but—
Brutus.
To make you merry: I shall, nay, I would make you merry, or tickle you till you laugh. The oracle! I’ll go to be resolved of some doubts private to myself: nay, princes, I am so much endeared both to your loves and companies, that you shall not have the power to be rid of me. What limits have we for our journey?
Sextus.
Five days, no more.
Brutus.
I shall fit me to your preparations. But one thing more: goes Collatine along?
Sextus.
Collatine is troubled with the common disease of all new-married men; he’s sick of the wife: his excuse is, forsooth, that Lucrece will not let him go: but you, having neither wife nor wit to hold you, I hope will not disappoint us.
Brutus.
Had I both, yet should you prevail with me above either.
Aruns.
We shall expect you.
Brutus.
Horatius Cocles and Mutius Scevola are not engaged in this expedition?
Aruns.
No, they attend the king. Farewell.
Brutus.
Lucretius stays at home too, and Valerius?
Sextus.
The palace cannot spare them.
Brutus.
None but we three?
Sextus.
We three.
Brutus.
We three; well, five days hence.
Sextus.
You have the time, farewell.
[Exeunt Sextus and Aruns.
Brutus.
The time I hope cannot be circumscribed
Within so short a limit; Rome and I
Are not so happy. What’s the reason then,
Heaven spares his rod so long? Mercury, tell me.
I have’t, the fruit of pride is yet but green,
Not mellow; though it grows apace, it comes not
To his full height: Jove oft delays his vengeance,
That when it haps ’t may prove more terrible.
Despair not, Brutus, then, but let thy country
And thee take this last comfort after all:
Pride, when thy fruit is ripe ’t must rot and fall.
But to the oracle. [Exit.