Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato and Volumnius.
BRUTUS.
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
CLITUS.
Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.
BRUTUS.
Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word;
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.
[Whispering.]
CLITUS.
What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
BRUTUS.
Peace then, no words.
CLITUS.
I’ll rather kill myself.
BRUTUS.
Hark thee, Dardanius.
[Whispers him.]