LUCIUS.
Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.
[Knocking within.]
BRUTUS.
'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks. —
[Exit Lucius.]
Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar
I have not slept.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma or a hideous dream:
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
[Re-enter Lucius].
LUCIUS.
Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door,
Who doth desire to see you.
BRUTUS.
Is he alone?
LUCIUS.
No, sir, there are more with him.
BRUTUS.
Do you know them?
LUCIUS.
No, sir, their hats are pluck'd about their ears,
And half their faces buried in their cloaks,
That by no means I may discover them
By any mark of favor.
