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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
Beware the ides of March
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.
Let me have men about me that are fat,
Sleek-hearted men, and such as sleeep o' nights.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much, such men are dangerous
...but for mine own part, it was Greek to me.
I should not need if you were gentle Brutus.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort of limitation?
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
I could be well moved, if I were as you;
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me;
But I am as constant as the Northern Star,
Of whose true-fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport
That now on Pompey's basis lies along
No worthier that the dust!
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Ceasar, not to praise him.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries
This was the noblest Roman of them all.
All the cospirators save only he
Did that they did in evny of great Caesar;
He, only in a general honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them