Julius Caesar, Act 2, Scene 1

What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius!

Hey, Lucius! I can't tell from the movement of the stars how close it is to daybreak. Lucius, I'm calling you! I wish it were my failing to sleep so soundly. Come on, Lucius, come on! Wake up, I say! Lucius!

Call’d you, my lord?

Did you call, my lord?

Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here.

Put a candle in my study, Lucius. When it's lit, come and call me here.

I will, my lord.

I will, my lord.

It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown’d: How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell.

It has to be done by killing him. As for me, I have no personal reason to strike at him, only the public good. He wants to be crowned. How that might change his nature — that's the question. It's the bright day that brings out the snake, and that calls for careful walking. Crown him? Yes — and then, I admit, we put a sting in him that he can use to do harm whenever he likes. Greatness is abused when it separates mercy from power. And to tell the truth about Caesar, I have never known his feelings to govern him more than his reason did. But it is a common observation that humility is young ambition's ladder: the climber keeps his face turned toward it as he goes up, but once he reaches the top rung he turns his back on the ladder, stares up into the clouds, and despises the lower steps that got him up there. Caesar may do the same. So, in case he may, let's forestall him. And since the case against him will not look convincing on the grounds of what he is now, shape it this way: that what he is, once increased, would rush to such and such extremes. And so think of him as a serpent's egg, which once hatched would grow dangerous as its kind does — and kill him while he's still in the shell.

The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed.

The candle is burning in your study, sir. While I was searching the window ledge for a flint, I found this paper, sealed up like this, and I'm certain it wasn't lying there when I went to bed.

Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?

Go back to bed; it isn't daylight yet. Isn't tomorrow the fifteenth of March, boy?

I know not, sir.

I don't know, sir.

Look in the calendar, and bring me word.

Look at the calendar and come tell me.

I will, sir.

I will, sir.

The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.

The meteors streaking through the air give off so much light that I can read by them.

Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress! “Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!” Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress!” Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus.

"Brutus, you are asleep. Wake up and see what you are. Shall Rome, and so on. Speak, strike, put it right!" "Brutus, you are asleep: wake up!" Urgings like this have often been dropped where I would pick them up. "Shall Rome, and so on." I must fill it out like this: shall Rome live in dread of one man? What, Rome? My ancestors drove the Tarquin out of the streets of Rome when he was called a king. "Speak, strike, put it right!" Am I being begged to speak and strike? Rome, I promise you: if the setting right is to follow, you get everything you ask for from the hand of Brutus.

Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.

Sir, fifteen days of March have gone by.

’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.

Good. Go to the gate — someone's knocking.

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

Ever since Cassius first stirred me up against Caesar, I haven't slept. Between carrying out a terrible deed and the first impulse toward it, the whole time in between is like a ghostly vision, or a horrible dream. The soul and the bodily agents that must do the work are holding council then, and a man's whole being, like a small kingdom, undergoes something like a rebellion.

Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you.

Sir, it's your brother-in-law Cassius at the door, who wants to see you.

Is he alone?

Is he alone?

No, sir, there are moe with him.

No, sir, there are more men with him.

Do you know them?

Do you know them?

No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour.

No, sir. Their hats are pulled down over their ears and half their faces are buried in their cloaks, so there's no way I can make out who they are by any feature.

Let ’em enter.

Let them in.

They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.

They are the conspirators' party. Conspiracy, are you ashamed to show your dangerous face even at night, when wickedness is freest? Then where will you find a cave dark enough by day to hide your monstrous face? Don't look for one, conspiracy — hide it in smiles and friendliness. For if you walk about wearing your own natural look, not even Erebus would be dark enough to keep you from being seen and stopped.

I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

I think we're taking too great a liberty with your sleep. Good morning, Brutus. Are we disturbing you?

I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?

I've been up for the last hour, awake all night. Do I know these men who have come with you?

Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honours you; and everyone doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius.

Yes, every one of them. And there isn't a man here who doesn't honour you, and every one of them wishes you thought of yourself as highly as every noble Roman thinks of you. This is Trebonius.

He is welcome hither.

He's welcome here.

This Decius Brutus.

This is Decius Brutus.

He is welcome too.

He's welcome too.

This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.

This is Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.

They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night?

They are all welcome. What worries have kept you awake, standing between your eyes and sleep?

Shall I entreat a word?

May I have a word with you?

Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

The east is over here. Doesn't the day break in this direction?

No.

No.

O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.

Excuse me, sir, but it does, and those grey streaks that line the clouds are the heralds of daylight.

You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

You'll admit that you are both wrong. Here, where I'm pointing my sword, is where the sun comes up — which is a good way over toward the south, considering how early in the year it is. About two months from now it will show its fire higher up toward the north, and due east lies directly here, like the Capitol.

Give me your hands all over, one by one.

Give me all your hands, one by one.

And let us swear our resolution.

And let's swear an oath on our decision.

No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag’d, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him.

No, no oath. If the misery in men's faces, the suffering of our own souls, the wrongs of this present time — if these are weak motives, then let's stop now and every man go home to his useless bed. In that case let arrogant tyranny keep ranging on till each man dies when his turn comes up by chance. But if these things carry fire enough — as I'm sure they do — to set cowards alight and to put steel and courage into the soft spirits of women, then, countrymen, what spur do we need but our own cause to drive us to set things right? What other bond than Romans who have given their word in secret, and won't go back on it? And what other oath than honesty pledged to honesty, that this shall happen or we will die for it? Let priests and cowards swear, and crafty men, and feeble old wrecks, and the kind of long-suffering souls who welcome being wronged. Let creatures that men distrust swear to bad causes. But don't stain the untroubled virtue of our undertaking, or the unbreakable spirit in us, by supposing that either our cause or our performance of it needed an oath — when every drop of blood that every Roman carries, and carries nobly, proves him a bastard if he breaks the smallest part of any promise he has made.

But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.

But what about Cicero? Shall we test how he feels? I think he'll stand very firmly with us.

Let us not leave him out.

Let's not leave him out.

No, by no means.

No, certainly not.

O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgement rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity.

Yes, let's have him, because his silver hair will win us a good reputation and buy men's voices to praise what we do. People will say his judgement guided our hands. Our youth and rashness won't show at all — it will all be hidden in his seriousness.

O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow anything That other men begin.

No, don't mention him. Let's not raise the matter with him, because he'll never go along with anything other men have started.

Then leave him out.

Then leave him out.

Indeed, he is not fit.

You're right, he isn't suitable.

Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?

Is no one else to be struck but Caesar alone?

Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all; which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.

Decius, a good point. I don't think it's right that Mark Antony, who is so dearly loved by Caesar, should outlive Caesar. We'll find he's a dangerous schemer, and you know his resources: if he makes the most of them, they could well reach far enough to harm us all. To forestall that, let Antony and Caesar go down together.

Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off.

What we do will look too bloody, Caius Cassius, if we cut off the head and then hack at the limbs — as though it were rage in the killing and spite afterwards. For Antony is only a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, not butchers, Caius. We are all rising up against the spirit of Caesar, and in a man's spirit there is no blood. If only we could get at Caesar's spirit without tearing Caesar apart! But, sadly, Caesar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends, let's kill him boldly, but not in anger. Let's carve him like a dish fit for the gods, not chop him up like a carcass fit for dogs. And let our hearts, as clever masters do, urge their servants on to an act of violence and afterwards appear to scold them for it. This will make our purpose look necessary and not spiteful; and appearing so in the eyes of the people, we'll be called cleansers, not murderers. As for Mark Antony, don't give him a thought: he can do no more than Caesar's arm can when Caesar's head is off.

Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—

Still, I'm afraid of him, because in the deep-rooted love he has for Caesar—

Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company.

Come now, good Cassius, don't worry about him. If he loves Caesar, all he can do is to himself — grieve and die for Caesar. And even that would be a lot for him to do, since he's given over to amusements, to wild behaviour, and to plenty of company.

There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.

There's nothing to fear in him. Don't let him die — he'll live and laugh about all this later on.

Peace! count the clock.

Quiet! Count the strokes.

The clock hath stricken three.

The clock has struck three.

’Tis time to part.

It's time we separated.

But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol today.

But it's still uncertain whether Caesar will come out today or not, because he has grown superstitious lately, quite unlike the firm view he once held about omens, dreams, and rituals. It may be that these obvious wonders, the unusual terror of this night, and the urging of his fortune-tellers will keep him away from the Capitol today.

Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Don't worry about that. If he's set on staying in, I can talk him round, because he loves to hear how unicorns can be tricked with trees, and bears with mirrors, elephants with pits, lions with nets, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, he says he does — being most flattered at that very moment. Leave it to me: I can steer his mood the right way, and I'll bring him to the Capitol.

Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.

No, all of us will be there to fetch him.

By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

By eight o'clock — is that the latest?

Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.

Let that be the latest, and don't fail to be there then.

Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him.

Caius Ligarius bears a grudge against Caesar, who scolded him for speaking well of Pompey. I'm surprised none of you has thought of him.

Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.

Now, good Metellus, go by his house on your way: he loves me well, and I have given him reason to. Just send him here, and I'll shape him to our purpose.

The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Morning is coming on us. We'll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, scatter; but every one of you remember what you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone.

Good gentlemen, look bright and cheerful; don't let our faces wear our intentions, but carry it off the way our Roman actors do, with untiring spirits and steady, practised composure. And so, good morning to every one of you.

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

Boy! Lucius! Sound asleep? It doesn't matter; enjoy the heavy, honeyed dew of sleep. You have no shapes or imaginings in your head, the kind that busy worry draws in men's brains; that's why you sleep so soundly.

Brutus, my lord.

Brutus, my lord.

Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

Portia, what do you mean by this? Why are you up now? It isn't good for your health to expose your delicate body like this to the raw cold morning.

Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

Nor for yours either. You have unkindly slipped out of my bed, Brutus; and last night at supper you suddenly got up and walked about, brooding and sighing, with your arms folded. And when I asked you what the matter was, you stared at me with unkind looks. I pressed you further; then you scratched your head and stamped your foot far too impatiently. Still I insisted, still you gave no answer, but with an angry wave of your hand you signalled for me to leave you. So I did, afraid of feeding that impatience, which seemed already too much on fire, and at the same time hoping it was only a passing mood, the kind that takes its turn with every man. It won't let you eat, or talk, or sleep; and if it could work as much on your appearance as it has taken hold of your nature, I wouldn't recognise you, Brutus. My dear lord, tell me the cause of your distress.

I am not well in health, and that is all.

I am not in good health, and that is all.

Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.

Brutus is wise, and if he were not in good health, he would take the steps needed to get it.

Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.

Why, that's just what I'm doing. Good Portia, go to bed.

Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, your self, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

Is Brutus ill, and is it good medicine to walk about with your clothes loose and breathe in the damp vapours of the dank morning? What, is Brutus ill, and will he slip out of his healthy bed to risk the foul infection of the night, and invite the damp, uncleansed air to make his sickness worse? No, my Brutus; you have some sick trouble in your mind, which by the right and privilege of my position as your wife I ought to be told about. And on my knees I beg you, by the beauty you once praised, by all your vows of love, and by that great vow which joined us and made us one, that you explain to me — to yourself, to your other half — why you are weighed down, and what men have come to you tonight; for there have been some six or seven here who hid their faces even from the darkness.

Kneel not, gentle Portia.

Don't kneel, gentle Portia.

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 your self But, as it were, in sort or 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.

I wouldn't need to, if you were the gentle Brutus I know. Within the contract of marriage, tell me, Brutus, is there a clause that says I should know no secrets that belong to you? Am I your own self only in a partial, limited way — to keep you company at meals, comfort you in bed, and talk with you now and then? Do I live only on the outskirts of your affection? If that's all it is, Portia is Brutus' whore, not his wife.

You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.

You are my true and honourable wife, as dear to me as the red drops of blood that come to my sorrowing heart.

If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband’s secrets?

If that were true, then I would know this secret. I admit I am a woman; but still a woman that Lord Brutus took as his wife. I admit I am a woman; but still a woman of good reputation, Cato's daughter. Do you think I am no stronger than other women, with such a father and such a husband? Tell me your plans, I will not reveal them. I have given strong proof of my firmness by wounding myself on purpose here, in the thigh. Can I bear that patiently and not my husband's secrets?

O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife!

O you gods, make me worthy of this noble wife!

Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.

Listen, listen, someone is knocking. Portia, go inside for a while; and very soon your breast shall share the secrets of my heart. I will explain to you all my commitments, and everything written on my sorrowing forehead. Leave me quickly.

Lucius, who’s that knocks?

Lucius, who is that knocking?

Here is a sick man that would speak with you.

Here is a sick man who wants to speak with you.

Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?

Caius Ligarius, the man Metellus spoke of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how are you?

Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.

Please accept a good morning from a feeble tongue.

O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!

Oh, what a moment you have picked out, splendid Caius, to be wearing an invalid's scarf! I wish you weren't sick!

I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

I am not sick, if Brutus has in hand any enterprise worthy of the name of honour.

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

I have just such an enterprise in hand, Ligarius, if you had a healthy ear to hear of it.

By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

By all the gods that Romans bow down to, I throw off my sickness here and now. Soul of Rome! Splendid son, descended from honourable ancestors! You, like a magician, have summoned up my deadened spirit. Now tell me to run, and I will struggle against impossible things — yes, and beat them. What is to be done?

A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

A job that will make sick men well.

But are not some whole that we must make sick?

But aren't there some well men whom we must make sick?

That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done.

That we must too. What it is, my Caius, I will explain to you as we go to the man it must be done to.

Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on.

Start walking, and with a heart newly set on fire I'll follow you, to do I don't know what; but it's enough that Brutus leads me on.

Follow me then.

Follow me then.