Julius Caesar

by William Shakespeare

Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:

Beware the ides of March.

for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently, For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honour more than I fear death.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me.

For, I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon.

I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:

But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter yields him ours.

He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that;—

And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell.

'Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake, and see thyself.

But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause, To prick us to redress?

Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent,

Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy:

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of:

Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

She dreamt to-night she saw my statue, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood: and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it:

My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation.

O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue!

Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.

Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.

'Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!'

People and senators, be not affrighted; Fly not; stand stiff: ambition's debt is paid.

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.

I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfil your pleasure.

Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As, by our hands and this our present act, You see we do, yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done:

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius!

And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water.

If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: —Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt!

For I am arm'd so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not.

O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes!

I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition.

Art thou any thing? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art.

But this same day Must end that work the ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not.

O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta'en before my face!

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.

Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me.

Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour'd to attain this hour.