Brutus and Cesar! What should be in that Cesar?
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 Cesar.
Now in the name of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats doth this our Cesar feed,
That he has grown so great? Age, thou art sham'd;
Rome thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was fam'd with more than with one man?
When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ?
Oh! You and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
Th' infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.

XX.-Brutus' Haurrangue on the Death of Cesar.—IB. ROMANS, Countrymen and Lovers!-Hear me for my cause; and be silent that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge.-If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cesar's, to him, I say, that Brutus love to Cesar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Cesar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition.-Who's here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him I have offended. Who's here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him I have offended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him I have offended. I pause for a reply

Noue! Then none have 1 offended. I have done no

The question

more to Cesar than you shall do to Brutus. of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc ed for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the beu efit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart-that as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

XXI.-Antony's Oration over Cesar's Body.-IB.
FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your

ears.

I come to bury Cesar, 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 Cesar! Noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cesar answer'd it.
Here under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Cesar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cesar seem ainbitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cesar hath wept!
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable 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 honourable 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 Cesar;
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Cesar might
Have stood against the world! now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence,
O Masters! If I were dispos'd to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong;
Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong-I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Cesar;
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 Cesar'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 Cesar put it on;

'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent,

That day he overcome the Nervii

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through-
See what a rent the envious Casca made-

Through this the well beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cesar follow'd it!
This, this was the unkindest cut of all!
For when the noble Cesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him! Then burst his mighty heart,
And in his mantle muffling up his face,

E'en at the base of Pompey's statue,
(Which all the while ran blood) great Cesar fell.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down;
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd 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 behold
Our Cesar's vesture wounded? Look you here !
Here is himself-marr'd, as you see, by 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 honourable!
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it! They are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reason 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 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 Cesar'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 Cesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

XXII.-Falstaff's Soliloquy on Honour.-HENRY IV. OWE heaven a death! 'Tis not due yet; and I would be loth to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter-honour pricks me on.-But how, if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set to a leg? No; an arm? No; or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word honour? Air; a

trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. 1 Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible, then?Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. Honour is a mere 'scutcheon— and so ends my catechism.

XXIII-Part of Richard III's Soliloquy the night preceding the Battle of Bosworth.-TRAGEDY OF RICHARD III. 'TIS now the dead of night, and half the world

Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung;

Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me)

With all the weary courtship of

My care tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed, Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with over watching.

I'll forth, and walk a while. The air's refreshing,

And the ripe harvest of the new mown hay

Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour.

How awful is this gloom! And hark! From camp to camp

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix'd sentinels almost receive

The secret whisper of each other's watch!

Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighings,
Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark! From the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With clink of hammars closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation: while some,
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch,

With patience sit, and inly ruminate

The morning's danger. By you heaven, my stern
Impatience chides this tardy gaited night,

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp

So tediously away. I'll to my couch,

And once more try to sleep her into morning.

XXIV.-The World compared to a Stage.-AS YOU LIKE IT. ALL the world is a stage;

And all the men and women, merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man, in his time, plays many parts,