CAT Forklift V40D SA Spare Parts

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 5. Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing,
tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a good living, tact will
make one; talent gets a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact
converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the
profession.
6. Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its
heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact
has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of
movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know
everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and
extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward
squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no looks of
wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place
as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the pianoforte.
It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.
London Atlas.

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

Signor Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me
About my moneys and my usances:
Still I have borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well, then, it now appears, you need my help:
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say>—
"Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so;
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say—
"Hath a dog money? Is it possible
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,
With bated breath and whispering humbleness,
Say this—
"Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys!"
Shakespeare.

THE CYNIC.

1. The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to
see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light,
mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game.
2. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes—openly bad and
secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the
appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a
good thing except for profit. The effect of his conversation upon your feelings is
to chill and sear them, to send you away sour and morose.
3. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every lovely thing
like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A. is pronounced a religious man, he will reply:
yes, on Sundays. Mr. B. has just joined the church: certainly, the elections are
coming on. The minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: it is his
trade. Such a man is generous: of other men's money. This man is obliging: to
lull suspicion and cheat you. That man is upright, because he is green.
4. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only the bad. To
him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of
opportunity, and undeniable purity, asceticism. The livelong day he will coolly sit
with sneering lip, transfixing every character that is presented.
5. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of opinion upon our
fellow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A
man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If he encourage a noble
generosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed
thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will crawl among men as
a burnished adder, whose life is mischief, and whose errand is death.
6. He who hunts for flowers will find flowers; and he who loves weeds will
find weeds.
Let it be remembered that no man, who is not himself morally diseased, will
have a relish for disease in others. Reject, then, the morbid ambition of the
Cynic, or cease to call yourself a man.
H. W. Beecher.

GOOD BY, PROUD WORLD.

I.

Good by, proud world! I'm going home;

Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through the weary crowds I roam,
A river-ark on the ocean brine.
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam
And now, proud world, I'm going home.

II.

Good by to Flattery's fawning face;

To Grandeur, with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go and those who come;
Good by, proud world! I'm going home.

III.

I am going to my own hearthstone,

Bosomed in yon green hills alone—
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,—
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod,—
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

IV.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

I.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea
Where the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

II.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn.

III.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

IV.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

V.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

VI.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron.

UNWRITTEN MUSIC.

1. There is unwritten music. The world is full of it. I hear it every hour that I
wake; and my waking sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleeping, though
that is a mystery. There is no sound of simple nature that is not music. It is all
God's work, and so harmony. You may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the
passages of its great anthem; and it is still melody,—melody.
2. The low winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and
bring their voices to your ear, as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate
finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest
is up and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long
grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over all; and
the dripple of that same brook, and the waterfall's unaltered bass shall still
reach you, in the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as
much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn.
3. There is no accident of nature's causing which can bring in discord. The
loosened rock may fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down
through the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully in the sky; and
sudden and violent as their changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound
of wind and waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar.
4. I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, which, in connection
with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful. It is believed that, to the
ear of the dying (which just before death becomes always exquisitely acute,) the
perfect harmony of the voices of nature is so ravishing, as to make him forget
his suffering, and die gently, as in a pleasant trance. And so, when the last
moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and bear him out
into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rushing of the streams. I can
believe that is not superstition. I do not think we know how exquisitely nature's
many voices are attuned to harmony and to each other.
5. The old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming when he
discovered that the order of the sky was like a scroll of written music, and that
two stars (which are said to have appeared centuries after his death, in the very
places he mentioned) were wanting to complete the harmony. We know how
wonderful are the phenomena of color, how strangely like consummate art the
strongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, and in the cups of flowers;
so that, to the practiced eye of the painter, the harmony is inimitably perfect.
6. It is natural to suppose every part of the universe equally perfect; and it is
a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars of Heaven are moving on
continually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen to are but part of a
melody that reaches to the very centre of God's illimitable spheres.
N. P. Willis.

LAUS MORTIS.
 I.

Nay, why should I fear Death,

Who gives us life and in exchange takes breath?
He is like cordial Spring
That lifts above the soil each buried thing;—

II.

Like Autumn, kind and brief

The frost that chills the branches, frees the leaf.
Like Winter's stormy hours,
That spread their fleece of snow to save the flowers.

III.

The loveliest of all things—

Life lends us only feet, Death gives us wings!
Fearing no covert thrust,
Let me walk onward armed with valiant trust.

IV.

Dreading no unseen knife,

Across Death's threshold step from life to life!
Oh, all ye frightened folk,
Whether ye wear a crown or bear a yoke,

V.

Laid in one equal bed,

When once your coverlet of grass is spread,
What daybreak need you fear?
The love will rule you there which guides you here!

VI.

Where Life, the Sower, stands,

Scattering the ages from his swinging hands,
Thou waitest, Reaper lone,
Until the multitudinous grain hath grown.

VII.
Scythe-bearer, when thy blade
Harvest my flesh, let me be unafraid!
God's husbandman thou art!
In His unwithering sheaves, oh, bind my heart.

Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

TAXATION OF THE COLONIES.

1. Sir: I agree with the honorable gentleman who spoke last, that this subject
is not new to this House. Very disagreeably to this House, very unfortunately to
this nation, and to the peace and prosperity of this whole empire, no topic has
been more familiar to us. For nine long years, session after session, we have
been lashed round and round this miserable circle of occasional arguments and
temporary expedients.
2. I am sure our heads must turn and our stomachs nauseate with them. We
have had them in every shape. We have looked at them in every point of view.
Invention is exhausted; reason is fatigued; experience has given judgment; but
obstinacy is not yet conquered.
3. The act of 1767, which grants this tea-duty, sets forth in its preamble, that
it was expedient to raise a revenue in America for the support of the civil
government there, as well as for purposes still more extensive. About two years
after this act was passed, the ministry thought it expedient to repeal five of the
duties, and to leave (for reasons best known to themselves) only the sixth
standing.
4. But I hear it rung continually in my ears, now and formerly,—"The
preamble! what will become of the preamble if you repeal this tax?" The clerk
will be so good as to turn to this act, and to read this favorite preamble.
5. "Whereas it is expedient that a revenue should be raised in your Majesty's
dominions in America, for making a more certain and adequate provision for
defraying the charge of the administration of justice and support of civil
government in such provinces where it shall be found necessary, and towards
further defraying the expenses of defending, protecting, and securing the said
dominions."
 6. You have heard this pompous performance. Now, where is the revenue
which is to do all these mighty things? Five-sixths repealed,—abandoned,—sunk,
—gone,—lost forever. Does the poor solitary tea-duty support the purposes of
this preamble? Is not the supply there stated as effectually abandoned as if the
tea-duty had perished in the general wreck? Here, Mr. Speaker, is a precious
mockery:—a preamble without an act,—taxes granted in order to be repealed,—
and the reason of the grant carefully kept up! This is raising a revenue in
America! This is preserving dignity in England!
7. Never did a people suffer so much for the empty words of a preamble. It
must be given up. For on what principle does it stand? This famous revenue
stands, at this hour, on all the debate, as a description of revenue not as yet
known in all the comprehensive (but too comprehensive!) vocabulary of finance
—a preambulary tax. It is, indeed, a tax of sophistry, a tax of pedantry, a tax of
disputation, a tax of war and rebellion, a tax for anything but benefit to the
imposers or satisfaction to the subject.
8. Well! but whatever it is, gentlemen will force the colonists to take the teas.
You will force them? Has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them? Oh,
but it seems "we are in the right. The tax is trifling,—in effect rather an
exoneration than an imposition; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on
teas exported to America is taken off,—the place of collection is only shifted;
instead of the retention of a shilling from the drawback here, it is three-pence
custom paid in America."
9. All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very folly and mischief of the act.
Incredible as it may seem, you know that you have deliberately thrown away a
large duty, which you held secure and quiet in your hands, for the vain hope of
getting one three-fourths less, through every hazard, through certain litigation,
and possibly through war.
10. Could anything be a subject of more just alarm to America, than to see
you go out of the plain high-road of finance, and give up your most certain
revenues and your clearest interest, merely for the sake of insulting the
colonies? No man ever doubted that the commodity of tea could bear an
imposition of three pence. But no commodity will bear three pence, or will bear
a penny, when the general feelings of men are irritated, and two millions of
people are resolved not to pay.
11. The feelings of the colonies were formerly the feelings of Great Britain.
Theirs were formerly the feelings of Mr. Hampden, when called upon for the
payment of twenty shillings. Would twenty shillings have ruined Mr. Hampden's
fortune? No! but the payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle it was
demanded, would have made him a slave. It is the weight of that preamble, of
which you are so fond, and not the weight of the duty, that the Americans are
unable and unwilling to bear.
12. It is, then, sir, upon the principle of this measure, and nothing else, that
we are at issue. It is a principle of political expediency. Your act of 1767 asserts
that it is expedient to raise a revenue in America; your act of 1769, which takes
away that revenue, contradicts the act of 1767, and by something much
stronger than words, asserts that it is not expedient. It is a reflection upon your
wisdom to persist in a solemn parliamentary declaration of the expediency of
any object, for which, at the same time, you make no provision.
13. And pray, sir, let not this circumstance escape you,—it is very material,—
that the preamble of this act which we wish to repeal, is not declaratory of a
right, as some gentlemen seem to argue it: it is only a recital of the expediency
of a certain exercise of right supposed already to have been asserted; an
exercise you are now contending for by ways and means which you confess,
though they were obeyed, to be utterly insufficient for their purpose. You are,
therefore, at this moment in the awkward situation of fighting for a phantom,—a
quiddity,—a thing that wants not only a substance, but even a name,—for a
thing which is neither abstract right nor profitable enjoyment.
14. They tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. I know not how it happens,
but this dignity of yours is a terrible incumbrance to you; for it has of late been
ever at war with your interest, your equity, and every idea of your policy. Show
the thing you contend for to be reason, show it to be common sense, show it to
be the means of attaining some useful end, and then I am content to allow it
what dignity you please. But what dignity is derived from the perseverance in
absurdity is more than ever I could discern.
15. The honorable gentleman has said well, that this subject does not stand
as it did formerly. Oh, certainly not! Every hour you continue on this ill-chosen
ground, your difficulties thicken around you; and therefore my conclusion is,
remove from a bad position as quickly as you can. The disgrace, and the
necessity of yielding, both of them, grow upon you every hour of your delay.
Edmund Burke.

MY HEART LEAPS UP.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Wordsworth.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

Act III. Scene II.

Ros. [Aside to Celia.] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that
habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?
Orl. Very well: what would you?
Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock?
Orl. You should ask me what time o' day: there's no clock in the forest.
Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and
groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.
Orl. And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that been as proper?
Ros. By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell
you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal,
and who he stands still withal.
Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her
marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's
pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.
Orl. Who ambles Time withal?
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for
the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily
because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful
learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time
ambles withal.
Orl. Who doth he galop withal?
Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he
thinks himself too soon there.
Orl. Who stays it still withal?
Ros. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and
then they perceive not how Time moves.
Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like
fringe upon a petticoat.
Orl. Are you native of this place?
Ros. As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so remov'd a
dwelling.
Ros. I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine
taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew
courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures
against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy
offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.
Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils laid to the charge of women?
Ros. There were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence
are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.
Orl. I prithee, recount some of them.
Ros. No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a
man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on
their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth,
deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give
him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
 Orl. I am he that is so love-shak'd: I pray you, tell me your remedy.
Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught me how to know
a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.
Orl. What were his marks?
Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you
have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected,
which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is
a younger brother's revenue: then your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet
unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you
demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather
point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of
any other.
Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Ros. Me believe it? you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which,
I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points
in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are
you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that
unfortunate he.
Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house
and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and
cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I
profess curing it by counsel.
Orl. Did you ever cure any so?
Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his
mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a
moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud,
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every
passion something and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are
for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then
entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I
drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness;
which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely
monastic. And thus I cur'd him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your
liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love
in't.
Orl. I would not be cured, youth.
Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day
to my cote and woo me.
Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.
Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and by the way you shall tell me
where in the forest you live. Will you go?
Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?
 CHAPTER II.

VITAL SLIDE.

THE RISING IN 1776.

I.

Out of the north the wild news came,

Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,
The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet;
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord, roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

II.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,
And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.

III.
How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,
The vale with peace and sunshine full
Where all the happy people walk,
Decked in their homespun flax and wool!
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms
bloom,
And every maid with simple art,
Wears on her breast, like her own heart,
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

IV.

The pastor came; his snowy locks

Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.
The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might,—
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

V.

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,

Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake,
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

VI.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed

In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside.
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

VII.

A moment there was awful pause,—

When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers,
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"

VIII.

And now before the open door—

The warrior priest had ordered so—
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,
The great bell swung as ne'er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was, "War! War! War!"

IX.

"Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry,

As striding from the desk he came,—
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name
For her to live, for her to die?"
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered "I!"
T. B. Read.

THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this:

You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein, my letters (praying on his side,
Because I knew the man) were slighted off.

Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.

Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet

That every nice offence should bear its comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself

Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm?

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,

And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

Cas. Chastisement?

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember!

Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake?
What villain touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice?—What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers;—shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty space of our large honors
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me:

I'll not endure it. You forget yourself,
To hedge me in: I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius.

Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:

Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further.

Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible!

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. Must I endure all this?

Bru. All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break.
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humor?
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you: for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth; yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this?

Bru. You say you are a better soldier;

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;

I said an elder soldier, not a better.
Did I say better?

Bru. If you did I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him!

Cas. I durst not?

Bru. No.

Cas. What! Durst not tempt him?

Bru. For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that which you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats!
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:—
For I can raise no money by vile means:
I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions;
Which you denied me.
Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?