[video description: a mouse puppet wearing chainmail while sitting at a table. On the left side of the table, a bowl of two avocados pushes in. On the right, there is a small chalkboard, which the puppet turns to show that it reads "2 for $10." The puppet sings a parody of running up that hill. It sings "if I only could, I'd make a deal with God, two avocados for ten bucks. He'd say 'that's not very good.' I'd say 'yeah but you're God. Isn't money kind of beneath you?' he'd say 'it's the principle.' I'd say 'do you want avocados or not?' the video cuts out. End description.]

[video description: a mouse puppet wearing chainmail while sitting at a table. On the left side of the table, a bowl of two avocados pushes in. On the right, there is a small chalkboard, which the puppet turns to show that it reads "2 for $10." The puppet sings a parody of running up that hill. It sings "if I only could, I'd make a deal with God, two avocados for ten bucks. He'd say 'that's not very good.' I'd say 'yeah but you're God. Isn't money kind of beneath you?' he'd say 'it's the principle.' I'd say 'do you want avocados or not?' the video cuts out. End description.]

Powerful message that lovingly includes multiple disabilities, united. I love this.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.

Caesar.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.

Beware the ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me. Let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng.

The Soothsayer comes forward.

Look upon Caesar.

What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.

Beware the ides of March.

He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.

Sennet. All but Brutus and Cassius exit.

Will you go see the order of the course?

Not I.

I pray you, do.

I am not gamesome. I do lack some part

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires.

I’ll leave you.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late.

 I have not from your eyes that gentleness

 And show of love as I was wont to have.

40 You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand

 Over your friend that loves you.

Cassius,

Be not deceived. If I have veiled my look,

I turn the trouble of my countenance

Merely upon myself. Vexèd I am

Of late with passions of some difference,

Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.

But let not therefore my good friends be grieved

(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)

Nor construe any further my neglect

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion,

By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself

But by reflection, by some other things.

 Tis just.

 And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

 That you have no such mirrors as will turn

 Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

 That you might see your shadow. I have heard

Where many of the best respect in Rome,

 Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus

 And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,

 Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear.

And since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.

And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus.

Were I a common laughter, or did use

To stale with ordinary oaths my love

To every new protester; if you know

That I do fawn on men and hug them hard

And after scandal them, or if you know

That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

Flourish and shout.

What means this shouting? I do fear the people

Choose Caesar for their king.

Ay, do you fear it?

Then must I think you would not have it so.

I would not, Cassius, yet I love him well.

But wherefore do you hold me here so long?

What is it that you would impart to me?

If it be aught toward the general good,

Set honor in one eye and death i’ th’ other

And I will look on both indifferently;

For let the gods so speed me as I love

The name of honor more than I fear death.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,

As well as I do know your outward favor.

Well, honor is the subject of my story.

I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,

I had as lief not be as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Caesar; so were you;

We both have fed as well, and we can both

Endure the winter’s cold as well as he.

For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,

Caesar said to me “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now

Leap in with me into this angry flood

And swim to yonder point?” Upon the word,

Accoutered as I was, I plungèd in

And bade him follow; so indeed he did.

The torrent roared, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside

And stemming it with hearts of controversy.

But ere we could arrive the point proposed,

Caesar cried “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!”

I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man

Is now become a god, and Cassius is

A wretched creature and must bend his body

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake.

His coward lips did from their color fly,

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world

Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan.

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans

Mark him and write his speeches in their books,

“Alas,” it cried “Give me some drink, Titinius”

As a sick girl. You gods, it doth amaze me

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

Shout. Flourish.

Another general shout!

I do believe that these applauses are

For some new honors that are heaped on Caesar.

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 dishonorable 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.

“Brutus” and “Caesar”—what should be in that

“Caesar”?

Why should that name be sounded more than

yours?

Write them together, yours is as fair a name;

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;

Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,

“Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.”

Now, in the names of all the gods at once,

Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!

When went there by an age, since the great flood,

But it was famed with more than with one man?

When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,

That her wide walks encompassed but one man?

Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough

When there is in it but one only man.

O, you and I have heard our fathers say

There was a Brutus once that would have brooked

Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome

As easily as a king.

That you do love me, I am nothing jealous.

What you would work me to, I have some aim.

How I have thought of this, and of these times,

I shall recount hereafter. For this present,

I would not, so with love I might entreat you,

Be any further moved. What you have said

I will consider; what you have to say

I will with patience hear, and find a time

Both meet to hear and answer such high things.

Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:

Brutus had rather be a villager

Than to repute himself a son of Rome

Under these hard conditions as this time

Is like to lay upon us.

 I am glad that my weak words

 Have struck but thus much show of fire from

 Brutus.

Enter Caesar and his train.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.

Caesar.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.

Beware the ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me. Let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng.

The Soothsayer comes forward.

Look upon Caesar.

What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.

Beware the ides of March.

He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.

Sennet. All but Brutus and Cassius exit.

Will you go see the order of the course?

Not I.

I pray you, do.

I am not gamesome. I do lack some part

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires.

I’ll leave you.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late.

 I have not from your eyes that gentleness

 And show of love as I was wont to have.

40 You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand

 Over your friend that loves you.

Cassius,

Be not deceived. If I have veiled my look,

I turn the trouble of my countenance

Merely upon myself. Vexèd I am

Of late with passions of some difference,

Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.

But let not therefore my good friends be grieved

(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)

Nor construe any further my neglect

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion,

By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself

But by reflection, by some other things.

 Tis just.

 And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

 That you have no such mirrors as will turn

 Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

 That you might see your shadow. I have heard

Where many of the best respect in Rome,

 Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus

 And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,

 Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear.

And since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.

And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus.

Were I a common laughter, or did use

To stale with ordinary oaths my love

To every new protester; if you know

That I do fawn on men and hug them hard

And after scandal them, or if you know

That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

Flourish and shout.

What means this shouting? I do fear the people

Choose Caesar for their king.

Ay, do you fear it?

Then must I think you would not have it so.

I would not, Cassius, yet I love him well.

But wherefore do you hold me here so long?

What is it that you would impart to me?

If it be aught toward the general good,

Set honor in one eye and death i’ th’ other

And I will look on both indifferently;

For let the gods so speed me as I love

The name of honor more than I fear death.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,

As well as I do know your outward favor.

Well, honor is the subject of my story.

I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,

I had as lief not be as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Caesar; so were you;

We both have fed as well, and we can both

Endure the winter’s cold as well as he.

For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,

Caesar said to me “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now

Leap in with me into this angry flood

And swim to yonder point?” Upon the word,

Accoutered as I was, I plungèd in

And bade him follow; so indeed he did.

The torrent roared, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside

And stemming it with hearts of controversy.

But ere we could arrive the point proposed,

Caesar cried “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!”

I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man

Is now become a god, and Cassius is

A wretched creature and must bend his body

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake. ’Tis true, this god did shake.

His coward lips did from their color fly,

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world

Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan.

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans

Mark him and write his speeches in their books,

“Alas,” it cried “Give me some drink, Titinius”

As a sick girl. You gods, it doth amaze me

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

Shout. Flourish.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.

Caesar.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.

Beware the ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me. Let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng.

The Soothsayer comes forward.

Look upon Caesar.

What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.

Beware the ides of March.

He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.

Sennet. All but Brutus and Cassius exit.

Will you go see the order of the course?

Not I.

I pray you, do.

I am not gamesome. I do lack some part

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires.

I’ll leave you.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late.

 I have not from your eyes that gentleness

 And show of love as I was wont to have.

40 You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand

 Over your friend that loves you.

Cassius,

Be not deceived. If I have veiled my look,

I turn the trouble of my countenance

Merely upon myself. Vexèd I am

Of late with passions of some difference,

Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.

But let not therefore my good friends be grieved

(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)

Nor construe any further my neglect

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion,

By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself

But by reflection, by some other things.

 Tis just.

 And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

 That you have no such mirrors as will turn

 Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

 That you might see your shadow. I have heard

Where many of the best respect in Rome,

 Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus

 And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,

 Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear.

And since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.

And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus.

Were I a common laughter, or did use

To stale with ordinary oaths my love

To every new protester; if you know

That I do fawn on men and hug them hard

And after scandal them, or if you know

That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

Flourish and shout.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.

Caesar.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.

Beware the ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me. Let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng.

The Soothsayer comes forward.

Look upon Caesar.

What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.

Beware the ides of March.

He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.

Sennet. All but Brutus and Cassius exit.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.

Caesar.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still. Peace, yet again!

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry “Caesar.” Speak. Caesar is turned to hear.

Beware the ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Set him before me. Let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng.

The Soothsayer comes forward.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners, ⌜including a Carpenter and a Cobbler,⌝ over the stage.

Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!
Is this a holiday? What, know you not,
Being mechanical, you ought not walk
Upon a laboring day without the sign
Of your profession?—Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?
What dost thou with thy best apparel on?—
You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow?

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman's matters nor women's matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper man as ever trop upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome.
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault
Assemble all the poor men of your sort,
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

All the Commoners exit.

See whe’er their basest mettle be not moved.
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol.
This way will I. Disrobe the images
If you do find them decked with ceremonies.

It is no matter. Let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about
And drive away the vulgar from the streets;
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

They exit in different directions.

Enter Caesar, Antony for the course, Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, a Soothsayer; after them Marullus and Flavius and Commoners.

Calphurnia.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Calphurnia.

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course.—Antonius.

Caesar, my lord.

Forget not in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia, for our elders say

The barren, touchèd in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember.

When Caesar says “Do this,” it is performed.

Set on and leave no ceremony out.

Sennet.