MESSALA.
Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription.
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
BRUTUS.
No, Messala.
MESSALA.
Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
BRUTUS.
Nothing, Messala.
MESSALA.
That, methinks, is strange.
BRUTUS.
Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?
MESSALA.
No, my lord.
BRUTUS.
Now as you are a Roman, tell me true.
MESSALA.
Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell,
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
BRUTUS.
Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala.
With meditating that she must die once,
I have the patience to endure it now.