“When BRVTVS knewe, AVGVSTVS parte preuail’de, And sawe his frendes, lie bleedinge on the grounde, Such deadlie griefe, his noble harte assail’de, That with his sworde, hee did him selfe confounde: But firste, his frendes perswaded him to flee, Whoe aunswer’d thus, my flighte with handes shalbee. And bending then to blade, his bared breste, Hee did pronounce, theise wordes with courage great: Oh Prowes vaine, I longe did loue thee beste, But nowe I see, thou doest on fortune waite. Wherefore with paine, I nowe doe prouue it true, That fortunes force, maie valiant hartes subdue.” So, in the _Julius Cæsar_ (act. v. sc. 5, l. 25, vol. vii. p. 413), the battle of Philippi being irretrievably lost to the party of the Republic, and Marcus Cato slain, Brutus, meditating self-destruction, desires aid from one of his friends that he may accomplish his purpose,— “Good Volumnius, Thou know’st that we two went to school together: Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. _Vol._ That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.” The alarum continues,—the friends of Brutus again remonstrate, and Clitus urges him to escape (l. 30),— “_Cli._ Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here. _Bru._ Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee, too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day, More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile contest shall attain unto. So, fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue Hath almost ended his life’s history: Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour.” Once more is the alarum raised,—“Fly, fly, fly.” “Hence, I will follow thee,” is the hero’s answer; but when friends are gone, he turns to one of his few attendants, and entreats (l. 44),— “I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it: Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? _Stra._ Give me your hand first: fare you well, my lord. _Bru._ Farewell, good Strato. [_Runs on his sword._] Cæsar, now be still: I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.@span 6: [_Dies._]”@ In the presence of the conquerors Strato then declares,— “The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death. _Lucil._ So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast proved Lucilius’ saying true.”