He was my friend, faithful and juft to me;

But Brutus fays 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 Cæfar feem ambitious?

When that the poor have cry'd, Cæfar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of fterner stuff,

Yet Brutus fays, he was ambitious,

And Brutus is an honourable man,
You all did fee, that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refufe. Was this ambition!

Yet Brutus fays, he was ambitious;

And, fure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not, to disprove what Brutus fpoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know,

You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause with-holds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment thou art fled to brutish beafts,

And men have loft their reason. Bear with me.

My heart is in the coffin there with Cæfar,

And I must pause till it come back to me,

I PLEBEIAN.

Methinks, there is much reason in his fayings, &c.

ANTONY.

But yesterday the word of Cæfar might

Have ftood against the world; now lies he there,

And none fo poor to do him reverence.

O mafters! if I were difpos'd to ftir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

I fhould do Brutus wrong, and Caffius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong: I rather chuse

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 Cæsar,
I found it in his clofet, 'tis his will;

Let but the commons hear this teftament,

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,

And they would go and kiss dead Cæfar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his facred blood;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it as a rich legacy

Unto their iffue.

4 PLEBEIAN.

We'll hear the will; read it, Mark Antony,

ALL.

The will, the will. We will hear Cæfar's will.

ANTONY.

ANTONY.

Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet, you know how Cæfar lov'd you.
You are not wood, you are not ftones, but men;
And, being men, hearing the will of Cæfar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
'Tis good you know not, that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, Ó what would come of it?
4 PLEBEIAN.

Read the will, we will hear it, Antony, &c.

ANTONY.

Will you be patient? will you ftay a while?
I have o'erfhot myfelf, to tell you of it.
I fear, I wrong the honourable men,

Whofe daggers have stabb'd Cæfar. I do fear it. 4 PLEBEIAN.

They were traitors, &c.

ANTONY.

You will compel me then to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corps of Cæfar,
And let me fhew you him, that made the will.
Shall I defcend? and will you give me leave?
ALL.

Come down.

If you have tears, prepare to fhed them now.

You all do know this mantle; I remember
The first time ever Cæfar put it on,

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

That day he overcome the Nervii.

Look! in this place, ran Caffius' 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 Cæfar follow'd it!

As rushing out of doors, to be refolv'd,
If Brutus fo unkindly knock'd, or no :

For Brutus, as you know, was Cæfar's angel,

Judge, oh you Gods! how dearly Cæfar lov'd him;

This was the most unkindeft cut of all;

For when the noble Cæfar faw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,

Quite vanquish'd him; then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's ftatue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæfar fell.

O what

O what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down:
Whilft bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep! and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.
Kind fouls! what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæfar's vefture wounded! look you here!
Here is himself, marr'd as you fee, by traitors.
I PLEBEIAN.

O piteous fpectacle!

ANTONY.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not ftir you up
To fuch a fudden 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 wife and honourable;
And will, no doubt, with reafons 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 give me public leave to speak of him;

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action nor utt'rance, nor the power of speech,

To ftir mens blood; I only speak right on.