Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable 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?

That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going To whom it must be done.

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.