* Beware the ides of March.

o Soothsayer, scene ii

* And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no such mirrors as will turn

Your hidden worthiness into your eye.

o Cassius, scene ii

* Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

o Cassius, scene ii

* Let me have men about me that are fat;

Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights.

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

o Caesar, scene ii

* Cassius: Did Cicero say anything?

Casca: Ay, he spoke Greek.

Cassius: To what effect?

Casca: Nay, an I tell you that I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another, and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me.

o Scene ii

* Indeed, it is a strange disposed time:

But men may construe things after their fashion,

Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

o Cicero, scene iii

[edit] Act II

* Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

o Caesar, scene ii

[edit] Act III

* Caesar: The ides of March are come.

Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

o Scene i

* Speak, hands, for me!

o Casca, scene i

* Et tu, Bruté? — Then fall, Caesar!

o Caesar, scene i

* How many ages hence

Shall this our lofty scene be acted over,

In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

o Cassius, scene i

* As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity.

o Brutus, scene i

* O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,

That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

o Antony, scene i

* Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war.

o Antony, scene i

* Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;

And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, —

For Brutus is an honorable man;

So are they all, all honorable men, —

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

o Antony, scene ii

* O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason.

o Antony, scene ii

* My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

o Antony, scene ii

* If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

o Antony, scene ii

* I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.

o Cinna the Poet, scene iii

[edit] Act IV

* There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

o Brutus, scene iii

[edit] Act V

* But this same day

Must end that work the ides of March begun;

And whether we shall meet again I know not.

Therefore our everlasting farewell take:

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!

If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;

If not, why, then, this parting was well made.

o Brutus, scene i

* O, that a man might know

The end of this day’s business ere it come!

But it sufficeth that the day will end,

And then the end is known.

o Brutus, scene i

* Caesar, now be still:

I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.

o Brutus, scene v

* This was the noblest Roman of them all:

All the conspirators, save only he,

Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;

He only, in a general honest thought,

And common good to all, made one of them.

His life was gentle; and the elements

So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up

And say to all the world, This was a man!

o Antony, scene v

* So call the field to rest: and let’s away,

To part the glories of this happy day.

o Octavius, scene v