BRUTUS.
O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
[Knocking within.]
Hark, hark, one knocks: Portia, go in awhile;
And by and by thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart:
All my engagements I will construe to thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows.
Leave me with haste.
[Exit Portia.]
— Lucius, who's that knocks?
[Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius.]
LUCIUS.
Here is a sick man that would speak with you.
BRUTUS.
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. —
Boy, stand aside. — Caius Ligarius, — how?
LIGARIUS.
Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.
BRUTUS.
O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
LIGARIUS.
I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand
Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
