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Cassius: And died so?

Brutus: Even so.

Cassius: O, ye immortal gods!

(Enter Lucius, with a jar of wine, a goblet, and a taper.)
Brutus: Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine:
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.
(Drinks.)

Cassius: My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup;
I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.
(Drinks.)

You ought to read that scene carefully. It will do no one any harm. It did me a lot of good one time, when I was about to quarrel with a friend whose heart was sick with many griefs that I knew nothing of at the time. You never know what’s behind.

Titinius and Messala come in, and proceed to discuss the situation.

Brutus: Come in, Titinius!! Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.

Cassius (on whom the wine seems to have taken some effect):
Portia, art thou gone?

Brutus: No more, I pray you.
Messala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius and Mark Antony
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition towards Philippi.

Messala has also letters to the same purpose, and they have likewise news of the murder, or execution, of upwards of a hundred senators in Rome.

Cassius: Cicero one!
Messala: Cicero is dead.

Poor Brutus! His heart had cause to be sick of many griefs that day. Messala thinks he has news to break, and Brutus draws him out. How many and many a man and woman, with a lump in the throat, have broken sad and bad news since that day, and started out to do it in the same old gentle way:

Messala: Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Brutus: No, Messala.

Messala: Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Brutus: Nothing, Messala.

Messala: That, methinks, is strange.

Brutus: Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

Maybe it strikes Messala like a flash that Brutus is in no need of any more bad news just now, and it had better be postponed till after the battle:

Messala: No, my lord.

Brutus: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Messala: Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Brutus: Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once
I have the patience to endure it now.

Poor Messala comes to the scratch again rather lamely with a little weak flattery: “Even so great men great losses should endure;” and Cassius says, rather mixedly–it might have been the wine–that he has as much strength in bearing trouble as Brutus has, and yet he couldn’t bear it so.

I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Brutus: Well, to our work alive. What do you think
Of marching on Philippi presently?

Brutus was a strong man. Portia’s spirit must bide a while. They discuss a plan of campaign. Cassius is for waiting for the enemy to seek them and so get through his tucker and knock his men up, while they rest in a good position; but Brutus argues that the enemy will gather up the country people between Philippi and their camp and come on refreshed with added numbers and courage, and it would be better for them to meet him at Philippi with these people at their back. The politics or inclination of the said country people didn’t matter in those days. “There is a tide in the affairs of men”–and so they decide to take it at the flood and float high on to the rocks at Philippi. Ah well, it led on to immortality, if it didn’t to fortune.

Well, there’s no more to say. Brutus thinks that the main thing now is a little rest–in which you’ll agree with him; and he sends for his night-shirt.