I live by with an awl, I meddle with no tradesmen's nor women's matters, but withal I am, a surgeon of old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them. As proper men trod upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.
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Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.
But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
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To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops. Your infants in your arms, and there have sat the livelong day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks, To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores?
Go now, countrymen, for this fault, assemble all the poor men of your sort. Go to the tiber river and weep your tears till the lowest stream overflows
And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
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