In every wound of Caesar that should move Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,Īnd bid them speak for me. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, That gave me public leave to speak of him.įor I have neither wit nor words nor worth,Īction nor utterance nor the power of speech, I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts.īut, as you know me all, a plain blunt man They are wise and honorable,Īnd will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, They that have done this deed are honorable. Good friends, sweet friends! Let me not stir you up But if it overwhelms you to look at Caesar's wounded cloak, how will you feel, kind men, now? Look at this, here is the man-scarred, as you can see, by traitors. Oh, now you weep, and I sense that you feel pity. Oh, what a fall it was, my countrymen! Then you and I and all of us fell down, while bloody treason triumphed. And at the base of Pompey's statue, with his cloak covering his face, which was dripping with blood the whole time, great Caesar fell. For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, he understood his beloved Brutus's ingratitude it was stronger than the violence of traitors, and it defeated him, bursting his mighty heart. The gods know how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkind cut of all. For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. And when he pulled out his cursed dagger, see how Caesar's blood came with it, as if rushing out a door to see if it was really Brutus who was knocking so rudely. Through this hole beloved Brutus stabbed. Look, here's where Cassius's dagger pierced it. It was the day he overcame the Nervii warriors. It was a summer's evening he was in his tent. I remember the first time Caesar ever put it on. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. Oh, now you weep, and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all. And as he plucked his cursèd steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no. Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through. 'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on.
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