’Tis but to plant a foot whence I may bound

With braver spring.—I am clear; the right’s my hope.

Right against blood hath still been honourable.

Men love the name of Brutus. The first Brutus

Slew his own son; the last his Cæsar. Ha!

’Tis madness; nay, that’s not my thought, not that.

’Twould fright the world that there should be a woman

Who could slay Cæsar and son in one. Nay, nay,

That lies beyond all fate. Yet, short of that,—

O blood, thou sacrament and bond of nature,