Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 1

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?

Away with you! Home, you lazy creatures, get home. Is this a holiday? What, don't you know that, being working men, you shouldn't walk about on a working day without the badge of your trade? Speak up, what's your trade?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you?

Where is your leather apron and your ruler? What are you doing in your best clothes? You, sir, what's your trade?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Truly, sir, compared with a fine craftsman, I am only, as you might say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

But what is your trade? Answer me straight.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

A trade, sir, that I hope I can practise with a clear conscience, which is indeed, sir, mending bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

What trade, you rascal? You wicked rascal, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

No, I beg you, sir, don't fall out with me; but if you are worn out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!

What do you mean by that? Mend me, you cheeky fellow!

Why, sir, cobble you.

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

You're a cobbler, are you?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.

Truly, sir, everything I live by is the awl. I don't get mixed up in any tradesman's business, or women's business, but even so I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I cure them. As fine men as ever walked on cowhide have walked on my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

But why aren't you in your shop today? Why are you leading these men around the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, so I can get myself more work. But really, sir, we're taking a holiday to see Caesar, and to celebrate his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Celebrate why? What conquest is he bringing home? What subject peoples follow him to Rome, to adorn his chariot wheels in captive chains? You blocks of wood, you stones, you things worse than senseless! Oh, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, didn't you know Pompey? Many and many a time you have climbed up onto walls and battlements, onto towers and windows, yes, onto chimney tops, your babies in your arms, and there you have sat the whole day long, waiting patiently, to see great Pompey pass through the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot just appear, didn't you all raise a shout together, so that the Tiber trembled beneath her banks to hear the echo of your noise made in her hollow shores? And now do you put on your best clothes? And now do you pick out a holiday? And now do you scatter flowers in the path of the man who comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Get out! Run to your houses, fall on your knees, pray to the gods to hold off the plague that must certainly fall on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

Go, go, good countrymen, and, to make up for this fault, gather together all the poor men of your kind, bring them to the banks of the Tiber, and weep your tears into the channel until the lowest level of the stream kisses the highest of all the shores.

See whether their basest metal be not mov’d; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.

See whether even their cheapest metal isn't stirred; they slip away, tongue-tied in their guilt. You go down that way, towards the Capitol; I'll go this way. Strip the statues bare if you find them decorated with ceremonial ornaments.

May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

Are we allowed to do that? You know it's the feast of Lupercal.

It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

It doesn't matter; let no statues be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll go around and drive the common people off the streets; you do the same, wherever you find them crowded together. These growing feathers, plucked from Caesar's wing, will make him fly at an ordinary height, when otherwise he would soar out of men's sight and keep us all in slavish fear.