Enter Portia and Lucius. [PORTIA]: I pr’ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? [LUCIUS]: To know my errand, madam. [PORTIA]: I would have had thee there and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. [_Aside._] O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet? [LUCIUS]: Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? [PORTIA]: Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that? [LUCIUS]: I hear none, madam. [PORTIA]: Pr’ythee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. [LUCIUS]: Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. Enter the Soothsayer. [PORTIA]: Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been? [SOOTHSAYER]: At mine own house, good lady. [PORTIA]: What is’t o’clock? [SOOTHSAYER]: About the ninth hour, lady. [PORTIA]: Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? [SOOTHSAYER]: Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand, To see him pass on to the Capitol. [PORTIA]: Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? [SOOTHSAYER]: That I have, lady, if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. [PORTIA]: Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him? [SOOTHSAYER]: 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._] Ay 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._]