Julius Caesar

I don’t doubt your wisdom. Each of you, give me your bloody hand. (he shakes hands with the conspirators) First, Marcus Brutus, I shake your hand. Next, Caius Cassius, I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours. Now yours, Metellus. Yours, Cinna. And yours, my brave Casca. Last but not least, yours, good Trebonius. You are all gentlemen—alas, what can I say? Now that I’ve shaken your hands, you’ll take me for either a coward or a flatterer—in either case, my credibility stands on slippery ground. It’s true that I loved you, Caesar—nothing could be truer. If your spirit is looking down upon us now, it must hurt you more than even your death to see your Antony making peace—shaking the bloody hands of your enemies—in front of your corpse. If I had as many eyes as you have wounds, and they wept as fast as your wounds stream blood—even that would be more becoming than joining your enemies in friendship. Forgive me, Julius! On this very spot you were hunted down, like a brave deer. And here you fell, where your hunters are now standing. The spot is marked by your death and stained by your blood. Oh world, you were the forest to this deer, and this deer, oh world, was your dear. Now you lie here, stabbed by many princes!

Mark Antony—

Pardon me, Caius Cassius. Even Caesar’s enemies would say the same. From a friend, it’s a cool assessment—no more than that.