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What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? awake, I say! what, Lucius!
What, Lucius, hey! I can’t tell, by the stars, how close we are to dawn. Lucius, I say! I wish it were my fault I was sleeping so deeply. When, Lucius, when? Wake up, I say! What, Lucius!
Call’d you, my lord?
Did you call me, my lord?
Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here.
Get me a candle in my study, Lucius: When it’s lit, come and call me here.
I will, my lord.
I will, my lord.
It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. 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 then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round. He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may. Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell.
It has to be by his death: and as for me, I don’t have any personal reason to oppose him, But for the good of everyone. He wants to be king: How that could change his character, that’s the question. It’s the bright day that brings out the snake; And that needs careful walking. Crown him?—That, And then, I admit, we give him power, So that he can use it to harm others at will. The problem with power is when it disconnects Remorse from authority: and, to be honest about Caesar, I’ve never seen his emotions overpower His reason. But it’s a common fact, That lowliness is ambition’s ladder, Which the climber turns his face toward; But once he reaches the top, He turns his back on the ladder, Looks at the sky, and scorns the lower rungs By which he rose. Caesar might do that too. So, to stop him from doing that, stop him now. And since the argument Can’t be made that he’s evil because of what he is, Shape it like this: what he is, once enhanced, Could lead to these dangerous extremes: So think of him like a serpent’s egg, Which, once hatched, would, as his kind does, become harmful, And kill him while he’s still in the shell.
The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up; and, I am sure, It did not lie there when I went to bed.
The candle is burning in your room, sir. I was looking for a flint in the window and found This paper, sealed like this; and I’m sure It wasn’t there when I went to bed.
Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March?
Go back to bed; it’s not morning yet. Isn’t tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?
I know not, sir.
I don’t know, sir.
Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
Look in the calendar and let me know.
I will, sir.
I will, sir.
The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.
The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.
’Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake, and see thyself. Shall Rome, & c. Speak, strike, redress! Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!’ Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. ’Shall Rome, & c.’ Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. ’Speak, strike, redress!’ Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise: If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!
’Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake, and see thyself. Shall Rome, & c. Speak, strike, redress! Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!’ Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. ’Shall Rome, & c.’ Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. ’Speak, strike, redress!’ Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise: If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!
Sir, March is wasted fourteen days.
Sir, March is wasted fourteen days.
’Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks.
That’s good. Go to the gate; somebody’s knocking.
Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
Since Cassius first pushed me to go against Caesar, I haven’t slept. Between the time of deciding on a terrible act And actually doing it, everything in between Feels like a nightmare or a horrifying dream: The inner self and the actions of the body Are in conversation; and the state of a person, Like a small kingdom, is then suffering The effects of an uprising.
Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you.
Sir, it’s your brother Cassius at the door, He wants to see you.
Is he alone?
Is he alone?
No, sir, there are moe with him.
No, sir, there are more with him.
Do you know them?
Do you know them?
No, sir; their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour.
No, sir; their hats are pulled down over their ears, And half of their faces are covered by their cloaks, So I can’t recognize them By any sign of favor.
Let ’em enter.
Let them come in.
They are the faction. O conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.
They are the group plotting against us. Oh conspiracy, Are you ashamed to show your dangerous face at night, When evil deeds are easier to do? Oh, then by day, Where will you find a dark enough cave To hide your monstrous face? Don’t try, conspiracy; Hide yourself behind smiles and friendliness: Because if you wear your true face, Not even the darkness of night would be enough To keep you hidden from discovery.
I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?
I think we’re being too forward by waking you up: Good morning, Brutus; did we disturb you?
I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?
I’ve been up for an hour, awake all night. Do I know these men who are with you?
Yes, every man of them, and no man here But honours you; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius.
Yes, every one of them, and there’s no one here But honors you; and everyone wishes You thought of yourself the way every noble Roman thinks of you. This is Trebonius.
He is welcome hither.
He’s welcome here.
This, Decius Brutus.
This is Decius Brutus.
He is welcome too.
He’s welcome too.
This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.
This is Casca; this is Cinna; and this is Metellus Cimber.
They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night?
They are all welcome. What worries keep you up and stand between You and a good night’s sleep?
Shall I entreat a word?
May I ask you something?
Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
Here is the east: isn’t the day breaking here?
No.
No.
O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon gray lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
Oh, forgive me, sir, it does; and those gray lines That cross the clouds are signs that morning’s here.
You shall confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, Which is a great way growing on the south, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence up higher toward the north He first presents his fire; and the high east Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.
You’ll admit that you’re both mistaken. Here, as I point my sword, the sun rises, Which is far to the south right now, Marking the young season of the year. In about two months, it’ll rise higher to the north And first show its light there; and the high east Will be directly here, just like the Capitol.
Give me your hands all over, one by one.
Give me your hands, one by one.
And let us swear our resolution.
And let’s swear our decision.
No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse,-- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. 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? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him.
No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The suffering of our souls, the wrongs of this time,-- If these are weak reasons, let’s break off now, And every man go back to his lazy bed; Let cruel tyranny continue to reign, Until each man dies by chance. But if these, As I’m sure they do, hold enough fire To spark courage in cowards and give strength To the weak hearts of women, then, fellow Romans, What need do we have of any other push than our own cause, To urge us to take action? What other bond Than the secret agreement of Romans who’ve spoken out, And will not back down? And what other oath Than honesty itself, that this will happen, or we will die for it? Let priests, cowards, and cautious men swear oaths, And the old, weak ones, and those who accept wrongs; Let them swear to bad causes. But don’t stain the pure virtue of our mission, Or the unstoppable drive of our spirits, By thinking that either our cause or our actions Need an oath; for every drop of blood That any Roman carries, and nobly carries, Is guilty of betrayal If he breaks even the smallest promise he makes.
But what of Cicero? shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.
But what about Cicero? Should we try him? I think he’ll be a strong ally for us.
Let us not leave him out.
Let’s not leave him out.
No, by no means.
No, not at all.
O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds: It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity.
Oh, let’s have him, because his gray hair Will give us a good reputation And win people’s approval for our actions: It will be said that his wisdom guided us; Our youthful recklessness will disappear, And everything will be hidden by his dignity.
O, name him not: let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin.
Oh, don’t mention him: let’s not break with him; For he will never support anything That others start.
Then leave him out.
Then leave him out.
Indeed he is not fit.
He’s really not the right choice.
Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?
Shouldn’t anyone else be involved, just Caesar?
Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all: which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.
Decius, good point: I don’t think it’s right, That Mark Antony, so loved by Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we’ll find him To be a sharp schemer; and, you know, his resources, If he uses them, could very well be a threat To all of us: so to stop that, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.
Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar: Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds: And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious: Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off.
Our plan will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut off his head and then hack at his limbs, Like anger in death and jealousy afterwards; For Antony is only a part of Caesar: Let’s be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against Caesar’s spirit; And in a man’s spirit there’s no blood: Oh, if we could only take Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember him! But, sadly, Caesar must die for this! And, dear friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not out of anger; Let’s treat him like a dish fit for the gods, Not carve him like an animal fit for dogs: And let our hearts, like clever leaders do, Stir up their emotions to an act of rage, And afterward pretend to scold them. This will make Our purpose seem necessary, not envious: And to the common people, we’ll be called purgers, not murderers. And as for Mark Antony, don’t worry about him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is gone.
Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar--
But I’m still worried about him; Because of the deep love he has for Caesar--
Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar: And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness and much company.
Oh, good Cassius, don’t worry about him: If he loves Caesar, all he can do Is think about it and die for Caesar: And that would be too much for him; because he’s into Games, wild behavior, and hanging out with a lot of people.
There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.
He’s not afraid of anything; don’t let him die; Because he’ll live and laugh about all this later.
Peace! count the clock.
Quiet! Listen to the clock.
The clock hath stricken three.
The clock has struck three.
’Tis time to part.
It’s time to leave.
But it is doubtful yet, Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies: It may be, these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol to-day.
But we still don’t know yet, If Caesar will come out today or not; He’s become more superstitious lately, And has totally changed his mind About things like fantasy, dreams, and rituals: It might be that these strange omens, The fear of tonight’s events, And the advice of his priests, Might stop him from going to the Capitol today.
Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils and men with flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.
Don’t worry about that: if he’s decided not to go, I can change his mind; he loves to hear That even unicorns can be tricked by trees, Bears by mirrors, elephants by holes, Lions by traps, and men by flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, even though he’s just being flattered. Let me do it; Because I can get him in the right mood, And I’ll get him to the Capitol.
Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
No, we’ll all go together to get him.
By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?
By the eighth hour: is that the latest?
Be that the uttermost, and fail not then.
Yes, that’s the latest, and don’t be late.
Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey: I wonder none of you have thought of him.
Caius Ligarius really hates Caesar, He criticized him for speaking well of Pompey: I’m surprised none of you have thought of him.
Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.
Now, good Metellus, go talk to him: He likes me a lot, and I’ve given him reasons; Just bring him here, and I’ll convince him.
The morning comes upon ’s: we’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.
Morning is coming: we’ll leave you now, Brutus. And, friends, spread out; but remember What you’ve said, and show yourselves as true Romans.
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: And so good morrow to you every one.
Good gentlemen, look sharp and cheerful; Don’t let our expressions give away our plans, But act like our Roman actors do, With unflagging energy and strong determination: And so, good morning to each of you.
Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.
Boy! Lucius! Are you asleep? It doesn’t matter; Enjoy the sweet, heavy sleep: You don’t have any worries or thoughts, Like the busy concerns that fill people’s minds; That’s why you sleep so soundly.
Brutus, my lord!
Brutus, my lord!
Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.
Portia, what do you mean? Why are you up now? It’s not good for your health to go out And expose your weak body to the cold morning air.
Nor for yours neither. You’ve ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across, And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks; I urged you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you: so I did; Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled, and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
It’s not good for you either. You’ve been unkind, Brutus, Sneaking out of bed: and last night, at dinner, You suddenly got up, and started pacing around, Thinking deeply and sighing, with your arms crossed, And when I asked you what was wrong, You just stared at me with cold, unkind eyes; I pressed you more, and then you scratched your head, And impatiently stamped your foot; But I kept insisting, and still you didn’t answer, Instead, you waved me off with a frustrated hand, Telling me to leave you: so I did; Afraid that my insistence would only make you more upset, And hoping it was just a passing mood, That everyone gets from time to time. It kept you from eating, talking, or sleeping, And if it had affected you as much as it’s affected your mood, I wouldn’t even recognize you, Brutus. My dear lord, Please tell me what’s bothering you.
I am not well in health, and that is all.
I’m just not feeling well, and that’s all.
Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.
Brutus is wise, and if he were really sick, He would take steps to get better.
Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.
I am, and I have. Good Portia, go back to bed.
Is Brutus sick? and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours 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 unpurged air To add unto his sickness? 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: 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, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men to-night Have had to resort to you: for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.
Is Brutus sick? Is it wise To walk out unprotected and breathe the damp air Of the cold morning? What, is Brutus ill, And will he leave his warm bed To risk the dangers of the night’s sickness And expose himself to the chill, unclean air That could worsen his condition? No, my Brutus; You have something troubling you in your mind, And as your wife, I have the right to know: I beg you, by my beauty, which you once praised, By all your vows of love, and that great vow That made us one, Please tell me what’s troubling you, and what men have come to you Tonight, for there have been Some six or seven, who hid their faces Even in the darkness.
Kneel not, gentle Portia.
Don’t kneel, my dear 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 yourself 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.
I wouldn’t need to, if you were a kinder Brutus. As your wife, tell me, Brutus, Is it wrong for me to know all the things That concern you? Am I only here To keep you company at meals, warm your bed, And chat with you sometimes? Am I just here To serve your pleasure? If that’s all, Then Portia is just your mistress, not your wife.
You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart
You are my true and honorable wife, As dear to me as the blood That fills my sad heart.
If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife: I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em: I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience. And not my husband’s secrets?
If that’s true, then I deserve to know this secret. I admit I’m a woman, but I’m also The woman that Lord Brutus chose to marry: I admit I’m a woman, but I’m also A woman with a good reputation, Cato’s daughter. Do you think I’m weaker than my gender, Just because of my father and my husband? Tell me your plans, I won’t tell anyone: I’ve proven my loyalty to you, By giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in my thigh: can I bear that in silence, And not your secrets?
O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Oh gods, Make me worthy of this noble wife!
Hark, hark! one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows: Leave me with haste.
Listen, listen! Someone’s knocking: Portia, go inside for a moment; And soon your heart will share The secrets of mine. I will explain all my plans to you, All the meaning of my worried expression: Leave me quickly.
Lucius, who’s that knocks?
Lucius, who’s knocking?
He is a sick man that would speak with you.
He’s a sick man who wants to speak to you.
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how?
Caius Ligarius, the one Metellus talked about. Boy, step aside. Caius Ligarius! What’s going on?
Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.
Good morning, though my voice is weak.
O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
Oh, what a time you’ve chosen, brave Caius, To wear a scarf! I wish you weren’t sick!
I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
I’m not sick, if Brutus has a plan Worthy of the name of honor.
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
I have such a plan, Ligarius, If you were healthy enough to hear about it.
By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible; Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?
By all the gods the Romans worship, I cast aside my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, born from noble parents! You, like an exorcist, have summoned up My weakened spirit. Now tell me to act, And I’ll fight the impossible; Yes, I’ll overcome it. What’s the plan?
A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
A task that will heal sick men.
But are not some whole that we must make sick?
But aren’t there some healthy men we need to make sick?
That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going To whom it must be done.
Yes, we must do that too. What it is, my Caius, I’ll explain to you as we go To the person it needs to be done to.
Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what: but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on.
Get moving, And with a heart that’s fired up, I’ll follow you, To do I know not what: but it’s enough That Brutus leads me.
Follow me, then.
Follow me, then.