Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I
meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey
It is no matter, let no images
Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets
