It will not let you eat nor talk nor sleep,
And could it work so much upon your shape
As it hath much prevailed on your condition,
I should not know you Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
And if it could change the way you look in the same way it's changed your behaviour, I would not know who you were when I looked at you Brutus.
I am not well in health, and that is all.
Brutus is wise and, were he not in health,
He would embrace the means to come by it.
Brutus is sensible and intelligent and if he was feeling ill he would accept help so he could be healthy again.
Why so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.
Is Brutus sick? And is it physical
To walk unbracèd and suck up the humors
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed
To dare the vile contagion of the night
And tempt the rheumy and unpurgèd air
To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus,
You have some sick offense within your mind,
Which by the right and virtue of my place
I ought to know of. (She kneels) And upon my knees
I charm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, your self, your half,
Why you are heavy, and what men tonight
Have had resort to you; for here have been
Some six or seven who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.
If you are genuinely ill, why would you leave the protection of your bed to risk catching an infection from the damp air and making it worse?
What do you think Portia means when she says Brutus’ sickness is within his mind? Do you think she knows what is wrong with him?
I beg you, by my once-praised beauty, by all your vows of love and by the legal vow of marriage, that made the two of us one person, tell me why you are troubled.
Portia saw the conspirators leaving with their faces covered. Why do you think she mentions them to Brutus?
Kneel not, gentle Portia.
I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I your self
But, as it were, in sort or limitation,
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.
How many questions does Portia ask Brutus and why do you think she doesn’t wait for a response, or answers them herself? What effect does this have?
Am I only on the edges of your life and not at the centre of it?
You are my true and honourable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.
How close do you think Brutus is to telling Portia everything in this moment? Why doesn’t he?
You are as important and precious to me as the blood that runs through my sad heart.
(Text edited for rehearsals by Angus Jackson)