Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Messa. Messa.
Messa. No my Lord.
Bru. Bru.
Bru. Now as you are a Roman tell me true.
Messa. Then like a Roman, beare the truth I tell,
Messa. For certaine she is dead, and by strange manner.
Bru. Why farewell Portia: We must die Messala:
Bru. With meditating that she must dye once,
Bru. I haue the patience to endure it now.
Messa. Euen so great men, great losses shold indure.
Cassi. Cassi.
Cassi. I haue as much of this in Art as you,
Cassi. But yet my Nature could not beare it so.
Bru. Well, to our worke aliue. What do you thinke
Bru. Of marching to Philippi presently.