BRUTUS.
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
LIGARIUS.
By all the gods that Romans bow before,
I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome!
Brave son, derived from honorable loins!
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible;
Yea, get the better of them. What's to do?
BRUTUS.
A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
LIGARIUS.
But are not some whole that we must make sick?
BRUTUS.
That must we also. What it is, my Caius,
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going,
To whom it must be done.
LIGARIUS.
Set on your foot;
And with a heart new-fired I follow you,
To do I know not what: but it sufficeth
That Brutus leads me on.
BRUTUS.
Follow me then.
[Exeunt.]
