Part 2 — ANTONY’S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. SHAKESPEARE.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones: So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Cæsar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,— For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men,— Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once,—not without cause: What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me. . . . . . . . . . . But yesterday the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O Masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here’s a parchment with the seal of Cæsar; I found it in his closet,—’tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament,— Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,— And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar’s wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue. . . . . . . . . . . If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Cæsar put it on; ’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabb’d; And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away, Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!— As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no: For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all; For, when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. . . . . . . . . . . Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable: What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him: For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Cæsar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but, were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. From “Julius Cæsar.”