Scene I

[Rome. A Street.]

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners over the stage.

FLAVIUS:

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home.
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?(5)

FLAVIUS:

Away! Go home, you idle creatures, go home!
Is this a holiday? What! Don’t you know,
Being trades people, that you shouldn’t walk about
On a workday without the tools
Of your trade?—Speak, what’s your trade?

CARPENTER:

Why, sir, a carpenter.

CARPENTER:

Why, sir, I’m a carpenter.

MARULLUS:

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?
You, sir, what trade are you?

MARULLUS:

Where is your leather apron and your ruler?
Why do you have your best clothes on?—
You, sir, what’s your trade?

COBBLER:

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as(10)
you would say, a cobbler.

COBBLER:

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine worker, I’m only, as you
would say a cobbler.

MARULLUS:

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

MARULLUS:

But what’s your trade? Just tell me that.

COBBLER:

A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe con-
science, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

COBBLER:

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a clear
conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

MARULLUS:

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what(15)
trade?

MARULLUS:

What’s your trade, you deceitful man? You naughty,
Deceitful man, what’s your trade?

COBBLER:

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you
be out, sir, I can mend you.

COBBLER:

No, Please, sir, don’t be angry with me; yet,
if you’re angry, sir, I can mend you.

MARULLUS:

What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy-
fellow!(20)

MARULLUS:

What do you mean by that? Mend me, you rude fellow!

COBBLER:

Why, sir, cobble you.

COBBLER:

Yes, sir, mend you.

FLAVIUS:

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

FLAVIUS:

You’re a mender, are you?

COBBLER:

Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle
with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with
awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are(25)
in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever
trod upon neats-leather have gone upon my handiwork.

COBBLER:

Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the sharp little tool; I don’t stick
my nose into any tradesman's matters, or women's matters, but with awl.
I’m indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they’re in
great danger, I re-cover them. Many proper men that ever walked
on cowhide leather have walked on my work.

FLAVIUS:

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?(30)

FLAVIUS:

But why aren’t you in your shop today?
Why do you lead these men in the streets?

COBBLER:

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into
more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar
and to rejoice in his triumph.

COBBLER:

Truly, sir, so I can wear out their shoes to get myself more
work. But, really, sir, we have taken a holiday to see Caesar and to
rejoice in his triumph.

MARULLUS:

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,(35)
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless 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,(40)
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,(45)
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?(50)
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,(55)
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

MARULLUS:

Why rejoice? What conquest does he bring home?
What people who pay him tribute follow him to Rome,
To decorate his chariot’s wheels with their chains and bonds?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Didn’t you know Pompey? Many times,
You’ve climbed up to the walls and lookout posts,
To the towers and windows, yes, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and you’ve sat there
The entire day, waiting patiently
To see great Pompey pass through the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot appear,
Haven’t you made one great big shout that was so loud
The Tiber River trembled underneath her banks
To hear the echo of your sounds
That bounced off her hollow shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And now you decide to call a holiday?
And now you throw flowers in the way if the man
That comes in triumph over Pompey's death?
Get going!
Run to your houses, fall on your knees,
Pray to the gods to stop the plague
That must be the punishment for this ingratitude.

FLAVIUS:

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears(60)
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

Exeunt all the Commoners.

See, whether their basest metal be not moved;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol;(65)
This way will I. Disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies.

FLAVIUS:

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this mistake,
Get all the poor men like you together,
Bring them to the Tiber River’s banks and weep your tears
Into the water, until the lowest stream
Floods the highest shores of heaven.

See whether they’ll really do what you suggested;
Their guilt made them vanish in silence.
You go down that way towards the Capitol;
I’ll go this way. Take their decorations off the statues,
If you find them covered with laurel and flowers.

MARULLUS:

May we do so?
You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

MARULLUS:

May we do that?
You know it is the feast of the priest Lupercus.

FLAVIUS:

It is no matter; let no images(70)
Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,(75)
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

FLAVIUS:

It doesn’t matter; don’t let the statues
Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll go around
And drive the low people away from the streets;
You do this too, where you see many of them gathered together.
These people who are showing such support for Caesar
Will make him think he is higher than he is,
That he is above ordinary men,
And he’ll keep us all in slavery and fear.

Exeunt.