For Brutus is an honourable man; So are they all, all honourable men.
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.
Cry “Havoc,” and let slip the dogs of war.
How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
Et tu, Brute!
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.
But, for my own part, it was Greek to me.
Beware the ides of March.