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.
MESSALA.
Even so great men great losses should endure.
CASSIUS.
I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.
BRUTUS.
Well, to our work alive. What do you think
Of marching to Philippi presently?