Brutus—his outer armor laid aside—sits on a couch: near him Lucius, a boy, nods drowsily over a stringed instrument. After a brief pause, Brutus—gazing at him—speaks wistfully:
BRUTUS Bear with me, good boy: Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile And touch thy instrument a strain or two?
LUCIUS Aye, my lord, an’t please you.
BRUTUS It does, my boy: I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
LUCIUS I have slept, my lord, already.
BRUTUS It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live I will be good to thee.
LUCIUS [Tuning his instrument, sings dreamily:]
Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the seed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust.
BRUTUS This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.— Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turned down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.