185Brutus.[112] Why ask you? hear you aught[113] 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.
190Brutus. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once,[114]
I have the patience to endure it now.
Messala. Even so great men great losses should endure.