Decius. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
Casca. No.
Cinna. O pardon, Sir, it doth; and yon grey lines,
That fret the clouds, are messengers of day.
Casca. You shall confess, that you are both deceiv'd:
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful, season of the year.
Some two months hence, up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire, and the high east
Stands as the Capitol, directly here.
We cannot help thinking this graceful familiarity better than all
the formality in the world. The truth of history in Julius Caesar is
very ably worked up with dramatic effect. The councils of generals,
the doubtful turns of battles, are represented to the life. The
death of Brutus is worthy of him--it has the dignity of the Roman
senator with the firmness of the Stoic philosopher. But what is
perhaps better than either, is the little incident of his boy,
Lucius, falling asleep over his instrument, as he is playing to his
master in his tent, the night before the battle. Nature had played
him the same forgetful trick once before on the night of the
conspiracy. The humanity of Brutus is the same on both occasions.
--It is no matter;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men.
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.