[Alarums. Cry within, “Fly, fly, fly!”.]
CLITUS.
Fly, my lord, fly!
BRUTUS.
Hence! I will follow.
[Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius and Volumnius.]
I pr’ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord.
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
STRATO.
Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.
BRUTUS.
Farewell, good Strato.—Caesar, now be still:
I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.
[He runs on his sword, and dies.]
Alarum. Retreat. Enter Antony, Octavius, Messala, Lucilius and the Army.
OCTAVIUS.
What man is that?