Document: All > Shakespeare > Tragedies > Julius Caesar > Act II, scene IV
[Enter PORTIA and LUCIUS]
PORTIA: I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone:
Why dost thou stay?
LUCIUS: To know my errand, madam.
PORTIA: I would have had thee there, and here again,
Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.
O constancy, be strong upon my side,
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue!
I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.
How hard it is for women to keep counsel!
Art thou here yet?
LUCIUS: Madam, what should I do?
Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?
And so return to you, and nothing else?
PORTIA: Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,
For he went sickly forth: and take good note
What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him.
Hark, boy! what noise is that?
LUCIUS: I hear none, madam.
PORTIA: Prithee, listen well;
I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,
And the wind brings it from the Capitol.
LUCIUS: Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.
[Enter the Soothsayer]
PORTIA: Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou been?
Soothsayer: At mine own house, good lady.
PORTIA: What is't o'clock?
Soothsayer: About the ninth hour, lady.
PORTIA: Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?
Soothsayer: Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand,
To see him pass on to the Capitol.
PORTIA: Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?
Soothsayer: That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar
To be so good to Caesar as to hear me,
I shall beseech him to befriend himself.
PORTIA: Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him?
Soothsayer: None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.
Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:
The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,
Of senators, of praetors, common suitors,
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:
I'll get me to a place more void, and there
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.
PORTIA: I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing
The heart of woman is! O Brutus,
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!
Sure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit
That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint.
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;
Say I am merry: come to me again,
And bring me word what he doth say to thee.