PORTIA.
Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him?
ARTEMIDORUS.
None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.
Good morrow to you. — Here the street is narrow:
The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,
Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors,
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:
I'll get me to a place more void, and there
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.
[Exit.]
PORTIA.
I must go in. — [Aside.] Ah me, how weak a thing
The heart of woman is! — O Brutus,
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! —
Sure, the boy heard me. — Brutus hath a suit
That Caesar will not grant. — O, I grow faint. —
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;
Say I am merry: come to me again,
And bring me word what he doth say to thee.
[Exeunt.]
