Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die. No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. 

BRUTUS. O Antony, beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As by our hands and this our present act You see we do; yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome— As fire drives out fire, so pity pity— Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. 

CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities. 

BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have appeas’d The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded. 

ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true: If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble, in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart; Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. 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! 

CASSIUS. Mark Antony,— 

ANTONY. Pardon me, Caius Cassius: 

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