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! Go home, you lazy creatures, get home. Is this a holiday? What, don't you know that, being manual workers, you shouldn't be out walking on a working day without the badge of your trade? Speak up, what is your trade?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Why, sir, I'm 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 measuring rule? What are you doing in your best clothes? You, sir, what is your trade?

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

Honestly, sir, compared with a skilled workman, I'm only, as you might put it, 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: I am, in fact, sir, a mender of 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 lose your temper with me; and yet, if you're worn out, sir, I can repair you.

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

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

Why, sir, cobble you.

Why, sir, patch you up.

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.

Honestly, sir, I make my whole living with the awl. I don't get involved in other tradesmen's business, or in women's business, but all the same I am, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they're in serious danger, I cure them. Men as fine as any who ever walked in ox-hide leather 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.

Honestly, sir, to wear out their shoes, so as to 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 conquered peoples are following him to Rome, to decorate his chariot wheels in their chains? You blockheads, you stones, you things worse than lifeless! Oh, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, didn't you know Pompey? Many and many a time you climbed up onto walls and battlements, onto towers and windows, yes, onto chimney tops, your babies in your arms, and sat there the whole day long waiting patiently to see great Pompey pass through the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot so much as appear, didn't you all give one great shout, so that the Tiber shook beneath her banks to hear the echo of your noise thrown back from her hollow shores? And now you put on your best clothes? And now you pick out a holiday? And now you scatter flowers in the path of the man who comes in triumph over Pompey's own blood? Get out! Run to your houses, fall on your knees, pray to the gods to hold back the disaster that must certainly fall on such 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, my good countrymen, and to atone for this offence gather all the poor men of your class, bring them to the banks of the Tiber, and weep your tears into the river, until the water at its lowest touches the highest banks of all.

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 how even the cheapest stuff in them is stirred; they slink off, speechless with guilt. You go down that way towards the Capitol; I'll go this way. Strip the statues if you find them decorated with tributes.

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 statue be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll go round and drive the common people off the streets; you do the same, wherever you find them crowded together. These new-grown feathers plucked from Caesar's wing will make him fly at an ordinary height — he who otherwise would soar out of everyone's sight and keep us all in slavish fear.