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!
Lucius! Hey! I can't tell from the stars how close to daybreak we are. Lucius, I'm talking to you! I wish I could sleep as soundly as you do. Come on, Lucius, wake up! Hey, Lucius!
Lucius! Seriously, are you there? I can't even tell what time it is from the stars. Lucius! Wake up already! I wish I could sleep as deeply as you do. Come on, Lucius, wake up!
lucius!! i can't even tell if it's almost morning wish i could sleep like you lucius WAKE UP
Call’d you, my lord?
Did you call me, my lord?
Yeah, what's up?
what do you need?
Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:
When it is lighted, come and call me here.
Get me a candle in my study, Lucius. When it's lit, come back and call me here.
Go get me a candle from my study, Lucius. Once you light it, come back and get me.
grab me a candle from my study light it then come get me
I will, my lord.
I'll do exactly that for you, sir.
You got it.
ok
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 through his death. And for my part, I have no personal grudge against him, but I act for Rome's sake. He wants to be crowned. The question is: how would that change his nature? Just as a bright sunny day can bring out the snake, and we must walk carefully—should we crown him? If we do, we give him the power to harm us at his will. The real danger of power is when it divorces compassion from authority. Speaking truthfully about Caesar, I've never seen his feelings override his reason. But there's a common pattern: humility is ambition's ladder. When the climber reaches the top, he turns his back on the ladder, looks to the clouds, and scorns the lower levels by which he rose. Caesar might do the same. So to prevent it, we must act first. Since we can't argue against what he is, we'll argue about what he might become: if his nature were amplified, he would fall into these extremes. So think of him as a serpent's egg—if it hatches, the serpent will grow dangerous. Kill him while he's still in the shell.
Look, he's got to die. I don't hate him personally, but Rome's survival is at stake. He wants to wear the crown, and that's the problem—it could change who he is. A beautiful day brings out snakes, and you've got to watch where you step. Crown Caesar? Then he'll have the power to hurt us whenever he wants. The dangerous thing about power is when it forgets mercy. Honestly, Caesar's been pretty reasonable—his head's usually ruled his heart. But there's this pattern with ambition: it starts out looking humble, like climbing a ladder. But once you reach the top, you kick that ladder away and look down on everyone below you. That could be Caesar. So we need to stop it before it happens. We can't say anything against what he is now, so we argue about what he'd become: all that power would corrupt him completely. Think of him like a serpent's egg—we need to crush it before it hatches.
he's gotta die i don't hate him but it's for rome power + ambition corrupt people he'll become dangerous if we let him rise stop it before it starts kill him before he hatches
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. Searching by the window for flint, I found this sealed paper. I'm certain it wasn't there when I went to bed.
The candle's lit in your study. I was looking for flint by the window and found this sealed letter. It definitely wasn't there when I went to sleep.
candle's lit found a sealed letter by the window it wasn't there before
Get you to bed again; it is not day.
Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?
Get back to bed; it's not daylight yet. Isn't tomorrow the Ides of March?
Go back to sleep, it's still dark out. Tomorrow's the Ides of March, right?
go back to bed tomorrow's the ides of march
I know not, sir.
I don't know, sir.
I don't know.
idk
Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
Check what day it is on the calendar and report back to me.
Check the calendar and let me know.
check the calendar
I will, sir.
I will, sir.
I will, sir.
i will, sir
The exhalations, whizzing in the air
Give so much light that I may read by them.
Meteors hissing through the air give enough light that I can read by them.
The meteors lighting up the sky give off enough light for me to read by.
the meteors are bright enough to read by
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.
The letter says: Speak, strike, demand justice! I've received many such provocations before. Let me piece out what it means: Should Rome live in fear of one man? My ancestors drove the king Tarquin from Rome's streets when he was called a king. Speak, strike, demand justice—am I being urged to speak and strike? Rome, I make you this promise: if justice will follow, you'll get everything you're asking for through Brutus.
It says 'Speak, strike, demand justice.' I've gotten letters like this before, trying to stir me up. So here's what it means: should Rome be ruled by fear of one man? My ancestors kicked King Tarquin right out of Rome's streets. They're urging me to speak up and act, aren't they? Rome, I promise you this: if justice comes from it, you're going to get what you want through me, Brutus.
the letter says speak strike demand justice i've gotten messages like this before should rome live in fear of one man? my ancestors drove out king tarquin i'm being asked to act rome i promise you if justice follows you'll get what you want
Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.
Sir, fifteen days of March have passed.
Sir, it's the fifteenth of March.
it's march 15th
Brutus's soliloquy is one of the most brilliantly constructed bad arguments in literature. He begins with a conclusion — 'it must be by his death' — and then spends twenty-five lines building the justification backward. The most revealing moment is 'Fashion it thus': he actually says, out loud, that since the case against what Caesar *is* has no color, he'll frame the case against what Caesar *might become*. That is: he knows there's no evidence, so he's constructing a hypothetical. The serpent's egg image captures the logical sleight of hand perfectly. An egg might become a dangerous serpent — yes. But it might also hatch into something benign. And crucially, the egg has done nothing wrong. Brutus is proposing pre-emptive execution of a man for crimes he has not committed and might never commit. The play never resolves whether Brutus is right about what Caesar would have become — Shakespeare carefully keeps us uncertain. Caesar is vain and deaf and grandiose, but there's no evidence he would have been a Sulla or a Tarquin. Brutus's entire enterprise rests on a guess. And the guess turns out to be more destructive than what it was guarding against.
’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.
Good. Go to the gate, someone's knocking.
Alright, someone's at the door—go see who it is.
someone's knocking go check
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 began to provoke me against Caesar, I haven't slept. Between deciding to do something terrible and actually doing it, all the time in between is like a phantom or a hideous nightmare. The spirit and the body are then in conflict, and the state of a man—like a little kingdom—then suffers the chaos of internal rebellion.
Since Cassius started pushing me against Caesar, I haven't gotten any sleep. You know that awful time between when you decide to do something terrible and when you actually do it? It's like a nightmare—your mind and body are fighting each other. A person becomes like a kingdom torn apart by its own civil war.
since cassius pushed me i can't sleep between deciding and doing something terrible it's like a nightmare the mind and body fight each other a person becomes like a kingdom at war
Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door,
Who doth desire to see you.
Sir, it's your brother Cassius at the door, and he wants to see you.
Sir, Cassius is at the door and wants to see you.
it's cassius at the door he wants to see you
Is he alone?
Is he alone?
Is he alone?
is he alone
No, sir, there are moe with him.
No, sir, there are more people with him.
No, he's brought some people with him.
he brought people with him
Do you know them?
Are you familiar with any of those men?
Do you know who they are?
recognize anyone?
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 around their ears and their faces are half-buried in their cloaks, so I can't identify them by any recognizable feature.
No, they've got their hats pulled down and cloaks wrapped around their faces. I can't see who they are.
can't see their faces they're covered up hats + cloaks everywhere
Let ’em enter.
Let ’em enter.
Let ’em enter.
let ’em enter
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.
These are the conspirators. O conspiracy, aren't you ashamed to reveal your dangerous face at night when evil runs free? Then by day, where will you find a cave dark enough to hide your monstrous face? Don't seek caves, conspiracy; hide yourself instead in smiles and pleasantness. If you show your true nature, not even the darkest depths of the underworld would be dark enough to hide you from being stopped.
Here they come—the conspirators. Conspiracy, aren't you embarrassed showing your ugly face at night when wickedness is running wild? And during the day, where would you even hide your horrible look? Don't bother looking for caves. Just hide yourself behind smiles and fake friendliness. Because if you showed what you really looked like, nowhere on earth—not even the deepest darkness—would be dark enough to keep people from stopping you.
conspiracy you should be embarrassed showing your face at night where would you hide by day? don't bother with caves just smile and pretend because if people saw what you really are nothing could stop them
I think we are too bold upon your rest:
Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?
I think we're imposing on your rest. Good morning, Brutus. Are we bothering you?
Sorry, we're probably keeping you from sleep. Good morning—are we in the way?
hey sorry for the early visit are we bothering you?
I have been up this hour, awake all night.
Know I these men that come along with you?
I've been up for an hour, awake all night. Do I know these men who came with you?
I've been up all night anyway. Do I know any of these guys you brought?
i've been up all night who are these people?
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 not a man here who doesn't respect you. Everyone wishes you had the same high opinion of yourself that every noble Roman has of you. This is Trebonius.
Yeah, I know them all. Every single one of them respects you, and they all wish you'd believe in yourself the way Rome does. This is Trebonius.
yeah i know em all they all respect you this is trebonius
He is welcome hither.
He's welcome here.
He's welcome.
welcome
This Decius Brutus.
This Decius Brutus.
This Decius Brutus.
this decius brutus
He is welcome too.
He's welcome to join us as well.
Sure, he's welcome too.
welcome too
This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.
Here we have Casca, Cinna, and Metellus Cimber.
Meet Casca, Cinna, and Metellus Cimber.
this is casca, cinna, metellus
They are all welcome.
What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night?
They're all welcome. What worries keep you from your sleep?
They're all welcome. So what's keeping you awake tonight?
all welcome what's keeping you up?
The Portia scene is sometimes cut in performance, which is a mistake. She makes the sharpest, most legally precise argument in the play: that the marriage vow creates a single person ('that great vow / Which did incorporate and make us one'), and that secrets from a spouse are therefore self-concealment — a form of spiritual dishonesty. Her 'suburbs of your good pleasure' image is devastating: she's accusing Brutus of treating her like a mistress with visiting rights, not a partner with full claims. And then she does something extraordinary — she reveals the self-inflicted wound to prove she can bear pain without disclosure. This is both heroic and heartbreaking: she shouldn't have to wound herself to be trusted. Brutus's response — 'O ye gods, render me worthy of this noble wife!' — is his most honest moment in the play, and also a form of deflection. He doesn't say: 'you're right, here's what's happening.' He admires her and asks the gods to improve him. He still doesn't tell her. He promises to tell her later, but she'll be dead before the conspiracy is over. Keep watching for Portia in 2-4 and 4-3.
Shall I entreat a word?
Can I have a word with you?
Can I talk to you privately?
can we talk?
Decius speaks in the register of smooth reassurance — he is the conspiracy's flatterer in chief, and his voice is always calm, confident, solution-oriented. Watch for how effortlessly he reframes problems as opportunities: in 2-2, he'll do his most important work in this voice.
Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
Here's the east—doesn't the day break there?
That's the east over there—isn't the sun breaking there?
that's the east isn't it getting light?
No.
No.
No.
no
O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines
That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
Oh, pardon me, sir, but yes it does. And those gray lines fretting across the clouds are messengers of dawn.
Actually it is, sorry. Those gray streaks breaking through the clouds mean daylight's coming.
yeah it is those gray lines mean morning's coming
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 both admit you're mistaken. Here—where I point my sword—the sun rises. It's come far along the southern path, fitting for this young time of year. Two months from now it will appear higher, toward the north. It first shows itself there. And the eastern direction stands directly here, like the Capitol.
You're both wrong, trust me. The sun's rising right here where I'm pointing. It's way off toward the south because it's early in the year. In a couple months it'll be higher, moving north. The east is right here, just like where the Capitol is.
you're both wrong the sun's over there (south) it's early in the year in 2 months it'll be in the north
Give me your hands all over, one by one.
Shake hands with me, each of you, one by one.
Come on, shake hands with me, everyone.
shake my hand everyone
And let us swear our resolution.
And let us swear to our plan.
And we should swear to this.
let's swear to it
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, not an oath. If the integrity of our faces, the suffering we've endured, the abuses of this time—if these aren't strong enough reasons, then quit now and go back to bed. Let tyranny rule unchecked until we all die by random chance. But if these DO give us fire enough to make cowards brave and turn women into warriors, then brothers, what more do we need than our cause itself to spur us to action? What other bond than secret Romans who keep their word? What oath beyond honor pledged to honor—that this will happen or we die for it? Let priests, cowards, and fearful men take oaths for their bad causes—let dubious creatures do it. But don't stain the nobility of our enterprise or the strength of our spirits by suggesting we need an oath. Every drop of Roman blood carries honor, and it would be base if any Roman broke even the smallest promise he made.
No, don't swear an oath. Look, if your pride, everything we've suffered, the state of Rome now—if that's not enough to drive you, then leave. Go to bed and let tyranny keep winning until we all just get picked off randomly. But if this DOES burn in you enough to make the timid brave and turn weakness into strength, then what more reason do we need? We're secret Romans who keep our word—isn't that an oath itself? What else do we need besides honor pledged to honor—either we do this or we die? Let priests and cowards swear oaths for their dirty schemes. Let people you don't trust make promises. Not us. We can't let our cause look like it needs an oath to bind us. Every Roman's blood is honor. We'd be traitors if we broke any promise we made.
no oath if you're not committed, leave we're romans we keep our word that's enough we either do this or die don't need promises to each other
But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him?
I think he will stand very strong with us.
But what about Cicero? Should we ask him to join? I think he'll be strongly on our side.
What about Cicero? Should we bring him in? I think he'll be really supportive.
what about cicero? think he'd join us? he'd probably be down
Let us not leave him out.
We shouldn't leave him out of this.
We should bring him in.
he's in
No, by no means.
No, absolutely not to leaving him out.
No way, don't leave him out.
nah include him
Metellus Cimber speaks practically, in committee-meeting mode — he adds names, suggests inclusions, thinks in terms of what the group needs. He's a useful planner, not a thinker. Watch for him in 3-1, where his role is purely mechanical.
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.
We should have him. His gray hair will win us respect and buy men's voices to praise what we do. People will say his judgment guided our hands. Our youth and impulsiveness won't show, but will be buried under his seriousness.
Definitely get him. His gray hair gives us credibility, and people will listen to whatever we do because he's backing us. They'll think he's the one directing us. It'll hide how young and reckless we are—his dignity will cover it.
include him his reputation = credibility people will listen he'll make us look less reckless
O, name him not; let us not break with him;
For he will never follow anything
That other men begin.
Don't mention him. Don't try to bring him in. He'll never follow something that other men started.
No, don't ask Cicero. He never supports anything he didn't start himself.
don't ask cicero he won't join something he didn't start
Then leave him out.
Agreed, we won't involve him.
Fine, forget him.
cool leave him out
Indeed, he is not fit.
Right, he's not suitable.
Yeah, he's not right for this anyway.
he's not cut out for it
Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?
Should we only target Caesar, no one else?
So we're just killing Caesar, right? No one else?
wait so we're just killing caesar? nobody else?
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.
Good point, Decius. I think it's wrong that Mark Antony, whom Caesar loves so much, should outlive Caesar. We'll find in him a clever schemer. And you know, his resources, if he improves them, could stretch far enough to harm all of us. To prevent that, let Antony and Caesar fall together.
Good call, Decius. Mark Antony loves Caesar too much—if Caesar dies and Antony survives, he'll become dangerous. He's clever and he's got resources. If he gets smart about using them, he could hurt us all. We should kill them both.
good point antony loves caesar too much if caesar dies antony'll get revenge we gotta kill them both
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.
Our plan will look too violent, Cassius— like we cut off the head and then hack the body apart out of rage and then envy afterward. But Antony is just a limb of Caesar. Let us be priests making sacrifice, not butchers. We stand against Caesar's spirit, and the spirit of men has no blood. If only we could reach Caesar's spirit without killing the man! But that's impossible— Caesar must bleed for this. Friends, let's kill him boldly, but not in anger. Let's prepare him like a dish for the gods, not chop him like a carcass for dogs. Let our hearts, like wise masters, command their servants to an act of violence and then seem to rebuke them. This will show our purpose is necessary, not spiteful. Looking this way to the common people, we'll be called healers, not murderers. As for Mark Antony, forget about him. He's powerless once Caesar's head is gone.
Cassius, this will look too bloody—like we're just hacking away in rage and jealousy. But Antony is just an extension of Caesar anyway. Let's think of this as a sacrifice, not a murder. We're not fighting Caesar the man—we're fighting what he represents for Rome. If only we could strike at his influence without killing him! But we can't. Caesar has to die. So let's do it calmly and deliberately—treat it like a sacrifice to the gods, not like animals tearing apart a carcass. We control our emotions and make it look like a necessary public good, not personal revenge. That way people see us as healers of Rome, not murderers. Don't worry about Antony—without Caesar, he's nothing.
this looks too bloody but we gotta do this it's a sacrifice not a murder kill him calmly not in rage treat it like a ritual don't worry about antony he's nothing without caesar
Yet I fear him;
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—
Yet I'm afraid of him, because of the deep love he bears for Caesar.
But I'm worried about him. He loves Caesar so much—
but i'm scared of him he loves caesar so much
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.
Don't worry about him, Cassius. If he loves Caesar, the worst he can do is harm himself—he'll grieve and die for Caesar. And he probably won't even do that, because he's devoted to pleasures, recklessness, and socializing.
Don't worry about Antony, Cassius. If he loves Caesar, the only person he'll hurt is himself. He might grieve and waste away. But honestly, he's too focused on parties and having fun to do anything serious.
don't worry about antony if he loves caesar he'll just hurt himself besides he's too into partying to care
Trebonius is almost silent, but when he speaks he's drily accurate — 'There is no fear in him; let him not die; / For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter' is a perfect three-line prediction that will go catastrophically wrong. Watch him.
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 kill him. He'll live, and later he'll laugh about this.
He's not dangerous. Let him live. Later he'll just laugh about the whole thing.
he's not scary let him live he'll laugh about it later
Scene 2-1 is the play's structural heart, and Shakespeare organizes it around the pressure of time. It is 3 AM when the conspirators arrive. By 8 AM they need to be at Caesar's house. That leaves five hours. The clock striking three is one of Shakespeare's famous anachronisms (mechanical striking clocks didn't exist in ancient Rome), but it's dramatically essential: it puts the audience on a countdown. The scene also runs forward on a diagonal of growing light — Brutus reads by meteor-light, the conspirators argue about which way east is, Cassius notes that 'the morning comes upon us.' By the time Portia enters and then Ligarius, dawn is genuinely close. Everything Brutus decides in these five hours — spare Antony, refuse the oath, dismiss Cicero — he decides in the small hours before dawn, sleepless, running on philosophical arguments instead of clear judgment. The scene doesn't say this explicitly, but it doesn't need to. The structural irony does the work.
Peace! count the clock.
Quiet! Check the time.
Shush, what time is it?
be quiet what time is it?
The clock hath stricken three.
The clock has struck three.
It's three o'clock.
it's 3am
’Tis time to part.
It's time to leave.
We should go.
time to go
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. He's become superstitious lately, completely changing from what he used to think about fantasies, dreams, and rituals. These obvious signs— the unusual terror of tonight, and what his fortune-tellers tell him— might keep him from the Capitol today.
But we don't know if Caesar will even come out today. He's gotten superstitious lately, which is totally different from how he used to be. The weird stuff happening tonight and what his fortune-tellers are telling him might scare him into staying home.
but caesar might not show up he's superstitious now the weird stuff tonight + his fortune-tellers might scare him away
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 determined to stay home, I can change his mind, because he loves to hear that unicorns can be trapped with trees, bears with mirrors, elephants with pits, lions with nets, and men with flattery. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, he agrees—while being most flattered himself. Let me work on him. I know how to play to his moods, and I'll bring him to the Capitol.
Don't worry. Even if he wants to stay home, I can get him to come. He loves hearing about how easy it is to trap wild animals—with trees for unicorns, mirrors for bears, all that. And the funny part is, when I tell him he hates flattery, he says he does—right while I'm flattering him. Let me handle this. I know how to manipulate him, and I'll get him to the Capitol.
don't worry i got him he loves hearing about traps especially that men get caught by flattery i'll flatter him he'll come to the capitol
Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
No, we'll all be there to fetch him.
We'll all be there to bring him.
we'll all go get him
By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?
By the eighth hour—is that the latest time?
By eight o'clock—is that the deadline?
by 8am? that's the limit?
Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.
Let that be the latest time, and don't be late.
Yeah, eight o'clock's the deadline. Make sure you're on time.
8am deadline don't be late
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 holds a grudge against Caesar, who scolded him for speaking well of Pompey. I'm surprised none of you thought of him.
Caius Ligarius hates Caesar—Caesar criticized him for supporting Pompey. Doesn't anyone else think we should recruit him?
caius ligarius hates caesar caesar yelled at him for liking pompey should we ask 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.
Metellus, go to him. He cares for me, and I've given him reason to. Just bring him here, and I'll bring him around.
Go find Caius, Metellus. He likes me and respects me. Just bring him here and I'll convince him.
go get him he likes me i'll convince him
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. We'll leave you now, Brutus. Friends, scatter and go your own ways, but all remember what you've committed to, and act like true Romans.
It's getting close to morning. We're leaving, Brutus. Everyone, split up and go, but remember what we've talked about and act like real Romans.
morning's coming we gotta go remember what we said act like 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.
Gentlemen, look cheerful and fresh. Don't let your faces show our plan, but carry yourselves like Roman actors— with lively spirits and steady dignity. Good morning to all of you.
Look happy and well-rested, everyone. Don't let anyone see what we're really up to. Act like Roman performers on stage—energetic and controlled. Good morning.
look happy + fresh don't show what's going on act normal like it's nothing good morning
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, fast asleep? It doesn't matter. Enjoy the sweet dew of slumber. You don't have the worries or anxious thoughts that keep busy minds awake. That's why you sleep so soundly.
Lucius, sleeping so soundly? That's fine. Enjoy that sweet sleep. You don't have all the worries and anxious thoughts that keep adults awake at night. That's why you sleep so peacefully.
lucius you're sleeping so well enjoy that sweet rest you don't have worries you don't have anxious thoughts that's why you sleep
Portia speaks in escalating logic — she builds her case the way a lawyer would, each clause adding weight to the next, until she delivers her evidence (the self-inflicted wound) like a closing argument. She's brilliant, disciplined, and completely shut out. Watch for how she always argues from rights and partnership, never just from feeling.
Brutus, my lord.
Brutus, my lord.
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? Why are you getting up now? It's not good for your health to expose your weak body to the raw cold morning.
Portia, what are you doing? Why are you up now? This can't be good for you—you shouldn't be out in the cold morning air when you're not well.
portia why are you up? it's bad for your health the cold air is terrible for you
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.
It's not good for you either. You've been leaving my bed without kindness, Brutus. Last night at dinner you suddenly stood up and walked around, thinking and sighing with your arms crossed. When I asked what was wrong, you stared at me with unfriendly eyes. I pressed you further, then you scratched your head and stamped your foot in frustration. But you didn't answer me—you just waved your hand in anger to dismiss me. So I left, not wanting to make your impatience worse, and hoping it was just a passing mood. But whatever this is won't let you eat, talk, or sleep. If it changed your face like it's changed your health, I wouldn't recognize you, Brutus. My lord, please tell me what's troubling you.
And it's not great for you either. You've been sneaking out of bed. Last night at dinner you suddenly stood up and started pacing around looking miserable with your arms folded. When I asked what was wrong, you gave me this cold stare. I kept asking, and you scratched your head and stamped your foot like you were angry with me. You wouldn't even respond—just waved me away. So I left, not wanting to make it worse, hoping it was just a bad mood. But it's not passing. You're not eating, you're not sleeping, you're not talking. You look terrible, Brutus. Honestly, if your face looked as bad as your health, I wouldn't know you. Please, just tell me what's wrong.
you're not well either you've been sneaking out at night last night you were pacing around looking sad you wouldn't tell me what's wrong now you won't eat or sleep i don't even recognize you please tell me what's going on
I am not well in health, and that is all.
I'm not in good health, and that's all there is to it.
I'm just not feeling well, okay?
not feeling great that's 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 weren't healthy, he would take steps to fix it.
You're smart, Brutus. If you were sick, you'd be doing something about it.
you're smart if you were sick you'd fix it
Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.
Well, I am trying to fix it. Portia, go to bed.
I am doing something about it. Just go back to bed.
i'm trying just go to bed
Ligarius is a minor character who appears in two scenes (2-1 and 2-2) and then disappears from the play. But his six lines in this scene are one of Shakespeare's sharpest satirical portraits. He arrives sick, wrapped in a kerchief, clearly unwell — and the moment Brutus says 'such an exploit have I in hand,' he literally throws off his illness. When asked what the enterprise is, he doesn't ask. He says: 'To do I know not what; but it sufficeth / That Brutus leads me.' This is presented as admirable devotion — and in context it's emotionally moving, a sick man rising for his hero. But step back and it's chilling: Ligarius has committed himself to a murder he doesn't know about, for reasons he hasn't heard, because the man who recruited him has a name he trusts. This is the conspiracy's entire ideological structure compressed into six lines: the cause is Brutus's honor, and Brutus's honor is the cause. There's nothing beneath it. No argument. No evidence. Just faith in the man. Keep watching for how that structure of blind faith becomes the conspiracy's fatal weakness.
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 sick, and would it make sense to walk without a coat, breathing the damp morning air? If you're sick, would you sneak out of your warm bed and expose yourself to the foul night air, adding to your sickness? No, my Brutus. You have some inner sickness, some troubled thought, which by my place as your wife, I ought to know. I beg you, by my beauty that you once admired, by all your vows of love, by that great promise that made us one, tell me what troubles you, tell me about yourself as my other half—why you're so burdened and who are these men, six or seven of them, who visited you tonight with their faces hidden even from the darkness?
If you were physically sick, you wouldn't be going outside in the damp cold—that would make it worse. You wouldn't be sneaking out of bed. This isn't a body sickness, Brutus. Something's wrong with your mind. As your wife, I have a right to know what it is. I'm begging you—by all the vows we made to each other, by everything that makes us a partnership—tell me what's going on. Who are all these men who came to visit you tonight in secret? There were like six or seven of them hiding their faces.
you're not physically sick something's in your head as your wife i have a right to know who were those 6-7 men tonight? they were all hiding their faces
Kneel not, gentle Portia.
Don't kneel, dear Portia.
Don't kneel.
get up no kneeling
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 have to kneel if you were treating me like a true partner, Brutus. In the bond of marriage, am I not supposed to know your secrets? Am I just part of you in limited ways—to eat with you, warm your bed, talk to you occasionally? Do I only live on the outskirts of your world? If that's all I am, then I'm your concubine, not your wife.
I wouldn't be kneeling if you treated me like an actual wife, Brutus. We're married—don't I get to know what's going on with you? Am I just here for meals and sex and conversation? Do I only get to see you when it's convenient? If that's what this marriage is, then I'm not your wife—I'm just someone you keep around.
i wouldn't kneel if you treated me right we're married i deserve to know what's going on i'm not just here for meals + bed i'm your wife not a concubine
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 honorable wife, as dear to me as the vital blood that flows through my sad heart.
You are my real wife, truly honored by me, as precious to me as my own blood.
you're my real wife as important as my own blood i swear
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 I'm truly as dear to you as your blood, then you would tell me this secret. I know I'm a woman, but I'm a woman you chose to marry. Yes, I'm a woman, but I'm Cato's daughter, a woman of reputation. Do you think I'm weaker than my gender? I'm strong—consider my father and husband. Tell me your secrets. I won't reveal them. I've proven my strength and loyalty by wounding myself in the thigh. Can I bear that pain and not bear the weight of your secrets?
If that's true, then tell me what's going on. Yes, I'm a woman, but I'm the woman you married. Yes, I'm a woman, but I'm Cato's daughter—I come from a strong family and have a strong reputation myself. Do you think I'm fragile just because I'm female? I'm not. I've even wounded myself to prove how strong and loyal I am. If I can handle that, I can handle your secrets without telling a soul.
if i'm that important tell me i'm a woman but i'm your wife i'm cato's daughter i'm strong i proved it by wounding myself i can keep your secret
O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
Gods, make me worthy of such a noble wife!
Gods, let me be worthy of her.
gods make me deserve her
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, someone is knocking. Portia, go inside for now, but soon I will share the secrets of my heart with you. I will explain all my plans and commitments to you, all the meaning written in my sad face. Go now quickly.
Listen—someone's knocking. Portia, go inside for now, but I promise soon I'll tell you everything that's in my heart. I'll explain all my plans, everything I'm involved in, and what's really troubling me. Just go for now, quickly.
someone's knocking go inside portia but soon i'll tell you everything i'll explain all my plans and what's troubling me just go now
Lucius, who’s that knocks?
Lucius, who is knocking?
Lucius, who's at the door?
lucius who's that?
Here is a sick man that would speak with you.
There's a sick man here who wants to speak with you.
There's a sick guy asking to see you.
sick guy wants to see you
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.
Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?
Caius Ligarius, the one Metellus mentioned. Boy, step aside. Caius Ligarius, how are you?
That's Caius—the one Metellus told us about. Step aside, Lucius. Caius, how are you?
caius ligarius! that's the guy metellus mentioned step aside lucius what's up caius?
Ligarius speaks in the language of pure devotion — short, fervent declarations tied entirely to Brutus's name. He doesn't need to know the plan; Brutus is the plan. Watch for the contrast between his total faith and Brutus's total uncertainty.
Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.
Grant me a good morning greeting from this weak voice.
Please accept my good morning, weak as it is.
morning sorry my voice is weak
O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
Oh, what timing you've chosen, brave Caius, to wear a head covering in this cold! I wish you weren't sick!
Bad timing showing up sick like this, Caius. I wish you were feeling better.
man you picked a bad time to be sick
I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand
Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
I'm not sick if Brutus has any deed in mind that deserves to be called honorable.
I'm not sick if you've got something honorable in mind.
i'm not sick if you got something worthy to do
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
I do have such a deed in mind, Ligarius, if you had a healthy ear to hear about it.
I do have something, Caius—if you're well enough to hear it.
i got something if you're healthy enough to listen
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 Romans worship, I abandon my sickness here. Spirit of Rome! Brave son, born of honorable blood! You, like a priest driving out demons, have revived my dead spirit. Now tell me to run, and I'll struggle against impossible things, even conquer them. What needs to be done?
By the gods, I'm done being sick. Brutus, you bring out the best in me. You're like a priest calling back a dead soul. Tell me what you need and I'll do the impossible. What's the plan?
i'm done being sick you've revived my spirit i'll do anything tell me what's next
A piece of work that will make sick men whole.
A deed that will heal the sick.
Something that will cure what's wrong.
something that'll fix everything
But are not some whole that we must make sick?
But don't we have to make some healthy people sick?
But won't we have to hurt some people in the process?
but won't we have to hurt people?
That must we also. What it is, my Caius,
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going,
To whom it must be done.
Yes, we must do that too. What it is, Caius, I'll explain as we go, and to whom it must be done.
Yes, we will. I'll explain on the way and tell you who.
yeah i'll explain on the way and tell you who
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.
Let's get going, and with a newly kindled heart I follow you, to do I know not what; but it's enough that Brutus leads me.
Let's go. My heart's on fire and I'll follow you anywhere, even not knowing what we're doing. It's enough that you're leading.
let's go i'll follow you anywhere i don't even care what it is
Follow me then.
Follow me then.
Follow me then.
follow me then
The Reckoning
This is Brutus's longest scene, and the most damning: we watch a good man reason his way into catastrophe, step by careful step, and every step is the wrong one. He spares Antony; he refuses the oath; he dismisses Cicero; and he lies to his wife's face before immediately promising to tell her everything. The audience knows what he cannot know: that these are all fatal errors. He leaves for the Capitol a man who believes he's doing the right thing, which is exactly what makes the tragedy.
If this happened today…
A highly respected senior partner at a law firm spends the night alone in his office convincing himself that pre-emptively forcing out the firm's most powerful rainmaker is the only ethical option — not because the rainmaker has done anything wrong, but because of what he might do with more power. He writes the memo at 3 AM, refuses to loop in the ethics team ('we don't need a formal process — our word is enough'), vetoes any plan to fire the rainmaker's loyal deputy ('too aggressive'), and tells his wife over breakfast that he just 'couldn't sleep.' By the time his colleagues arrive at 8, he's hosting them for coffee with a smile and calling it a good morning.