Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor 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 Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’s love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. (3.2.12-20)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones. So let it be with Caesar. … Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me. But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. . . . Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. . . . You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? … You all did love him once, not without cause. What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? … My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. (3.2.72-106)
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. … O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. Oh, now you weep, and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. (3.2.164-192)
Good friends, sweet friends! Let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. … I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar’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 Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. (3.2.202-222)
I am not Cinna the conspirator. . . . It is no matter. His name’s Cinna. Pluck but his name out of his heart and turn him going. . . . Come, brands, ho, firebrands. To Brutus’s, to Cassius’s, burn all. Some to Decius’s house and some to Casca’s. Some to Ligarius’s. Away, go! (3.3.30-37)
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