Lit HW
Montāžas Teksta
- Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What know you not, Being mechanical, you ought to walk upon a laboring day without the sign of your proffesion?
- Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault,Assemble all the poor men of your sort,Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tearsInto the channel till the lowest stream60Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
- What mean’st thou by that? “Mend” me, thou saucy fellow?
- Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
- It is no matter. Let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about 70And drive away the vulgar from the streets. So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men
- May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
- You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things, O you hard hearts, you cruèl men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, 40Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
- Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
- Why, sir, cobble you.
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