Cato. He is slaine
Bru. O Iulius Caesar, thou art mighty yet,
Thy Spirit walkes abroad, and turnes our Swords
In our owne proper Entrailes. Low Alarums
Cato. Braue Titinius,
Looke where he haue not crown'd dead Cassius
Bru. Are yet two Romans liuing such as these?
The last of all the Romans, far thee well:
It is impossible, that euer Rome
Should breed thy fellow. Friends I owe mo teares
To this dead man, then you shall see me pay.
I shall finde time, Cassius: I shall finde time.
Come therefore, and to Tharsus send his body,
His Funerals shall not be in our Campe,
Least it discomfort vs. Lucillius come,
And come yong Cato, let vs to the Field,
Labio and Flauio set our Battailes on:
'Tis three a clocke, and Romans yet ere night,
We shall try Fortune in a second fight.
Exeunt.
Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, Cato, Lucillius, and Flauius.
Bru. Yet Country-men: O yet, hold vp your heads
Cato. What Bastard doth not? Who will go with me?
I will proclaime my name about the Field.
I am the Sonne of Marcus Cato, hoe.
A Foe to Tyrants, and my Countries Friend.
I am the Sonne of Marcus Cato, hoe.
Enter Souldiers, and fight.
And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I,
Brutus my Countries Friend: Know me for Brutus
Luc. O yong and Noble Cato, art thou downe?
Why now thou dyest, as brauely as Titinius,
And may'st be honour'd, being Cato's Sonne