O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, strucken by many princes, Dost thou here lie!

Pardon me, Caius Cassius: The enemies of Caesar shall say this; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.

I blame you not for praising Caesar so; But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick’d in number of our friends; Or shall we on, and not depend on you?

Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed, Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all and love you all, Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous.

Or else were this a savage spectacle: Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied.