Fates, we will know your pleasures: That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon.

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridged His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, And, waving our red weapons o’er our heads, Let’s all cry “Peace, freedom and liberty!”

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 than the dust!