fluences,
To heape mischance, and danger to thy life:
The Sacrificing beast is heart-les found:
Sad ghastly sightes, and raysed Ghostes appeare,
Which fill the silent woods, with groning cries:
The hoarse Night-rauen tunes the chearles voyce,
And calls the bale-full Owle, and howling Doge,
To make a consort. In whose sad song is this, 1650
Neere is the ouerthrow of _Caesars_ blisse. _Exit._
_Caesar._ The world is set to fray mee from my wits,
Heers harteles Sacrifice and visions,
Howlinge and cryes, and gastly grones of Ghosts,
Soft _Caesar_ do not make a mockery,
Of these Prodigious signes sent from the Heauens,
_Calphurnias_ Dre ame Iumping which _Augurs_ words,
Shew (if thou markest it _Caesar_) cause to feare:
This day the Senate there shalbe dissolued,
And Ile returne to my _Calphurnia_ home, _One giues him a paper._ 1660
What hast thou heare that thou presents vs with,
_Pre._ A thing my Lord that doth concerne your life.
Which loue to you and hate of such a deed,
Makes me reueale vnto your excellence. _Caesar laughs._
Smilest thou, or think'st thou it some ilde toy,
Thout frowne a non to read so many names.
That haue conspird and sworne thy bloody death, _Exit._

_Enter Cassius._

_Cassius._ Now must I come, and with close subtile girdes,
Deceaue the prey that Ile deuoure anon, 1670
My Lord the Sacred Senate doth expect,
Your royall presence in _Pompeius_ court:
_Caesar._ _Cassius_ they tell me that some daungers nigh.
And death pretended in the Senate house.
_Cassi._ What danger or what wrong can be,
Where harmeles grauitie and vertue sits,
Tis past all daunger present death it is,
Nor is it wrong to render due desert.
To feare the Senators without a cause,
Will bee a cause why theile be to be feared, 1680
_Caesa._ The Senate stayes for me in _Pompeys_ court.
And _Caesars_ heere, and dares not goe to them,
Packe hence all dread of danger and of death,
What must be must be; _Caesars_ prest for all,
_Cassi._ Now haue I sent him headlong to his ende,
Vengance and death awayting at his heeles,
_Caesar_ thy life now hangeth on a twine,
Which by my Poniard must bee cut in twaine,
Thy chaire of state now turn'd is to thy Be