Octavius, then take him to follow thee,
That did the latest service to my master.

How died my master, Strato?

My master's man. Strato, where is thy master?

Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report
Into his ears; I may say, thrusting it;
For piercing steel and darts envenomed
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus
As tidings of this sight.

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.
O hateful error, melancholy's child,
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men
The things that are not? O error, soon conceived,
Thou never comest unto a happy birth,
But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee!

Is not that he?

Is not that he that lies upon the ground?

Where did you leave him?

It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius
Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power,
As Cassius' legions are by Antony.

Believe not so.

Standing forth What says my general?

Even so great men great losses should endure.

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

No, my lord.

That, methinks, is strange.

Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription.
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

That by proscription and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,
Have put to death an hundred senators.

Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.