Clit. Statillius shew'd the Torch-light, but my Lord
He came not backe: he is or tane, or slaine
Brut. Sit thee downe, Clitus: slaying is the word,
It is a deed in fashion. Hearke thee, Clitus
Clit. What I, my Lord? No, not for all the World
Brut. Peace then, no words
Clit. Ile rather kill my selfe
Brut. Hearke thee, Dardanius
Dard. Shall I doe such a deed?
Clit. O Dardanius
Dard. O Clitus
Clit. What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
Dard. To kill him, Clitus: looke he meditates
Clit. Now is that Noble Vessell full of griefe,
That it runnes ouer euen at his eyes