Cassi. Cicero one?
Messa. Cicero is dead, and by that order of proscription
Had you your Letters from your wife, my Lord?
Bru. No Messala
Messa. Nor nothing in your Letters writ of her?
Bru. Nothing Messala
Messa. That me thinkes is strange
Bru. Why aske you?
Heare you ought of her, in yours?
Messa. No my Lord
Bru. Now as you are a Roman tell me true
Messa. Then like a Roman, beare the truth I tell,
For certaine she is dead, and by strange manner
Bru. Why farewell Portia: We must die Messala:
With meditating that she must dye once,
I haue the patience to endure it now
Messa. Euen so great men, great losses shold indure
Cassi. I haue as much of this in Art as you,
But yet my Nature could not beare it so
Bru. Well, to our worke aliue. What do you thinke
Of marching to Philippi presently