Mes. Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription.
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
Bru. No, Messala.181
Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
Bru. Nothing, Messala.
Mes. That, methinks, is strange.
Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?184
Mes. No, my lord.
Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.
Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
Bru. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:189
With meditating that she must die once,
I have the patience to endure it now.
Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.192
Cas. I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.
Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think
Of marching to Philippi presently?196
Cas. I do not think it good.
Bru. Your reason?
Cas. This is it:
'Tis better that the enemy seek us:
So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers.
Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still,200
Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.
Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.
183 Nothing, Messala; cf. n.
190 once: some day
193 art: theory
195 alive: which concerns the living
202 force: necessity
