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In: Plays/Films/Dramas·Classics of Literature·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #1522.
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is a political tragedy that plunges the reader straight into the bustling streets of ancient Rome, where a cobbler and a legion of ordinary citizens debate the triumph of a returning general. The opening scene sets a tone of civic unrest: common folk question the celebration of Caesar’s victories, while officials like Flavius and Marullus attempt to suppress public displays of loyalty. The dialogue quickly moves to the Senate’s grand procession, introducing Caesar, his entourage, and the ominous warning of the so‑called “Ides of March.” Even before any conspiratorial plotting begins, the play establishes a clash between personal ambition, public spectacle, and the fragile balance of power.
Written in Elizabethan English, the work combines rhythmic iambic pentameter with vivid rhetorical flourishes, delivering a blend of poetic grandeur and razor‑sharp political commentary. Readers who relish dense, character‑driven drama, especially those interested in themes of betrayal, rhetoric, and the mechanics of power, will find Shakespeare’s layered language and historical setting compelling.
The opening · free to read
COBBLER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.
MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.
COBBLER. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.
MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?
COBBLER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.
MARULLUS. What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!
COBBLER. Why, sir, cobble you.
FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?
COBBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.
FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
COBBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.
MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.
FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
See whether their basest metal be not mov’d; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.
CAESAR. Calphurnia.
CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.
CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.
ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d.
CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out.
CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music, Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear.
SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. What man is that?
BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face.
CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.
CAESAR. What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again.
SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March.
CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass.
[_Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius._]
CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course?
BRUTUS. Not I.
CASSIUS. I pray you, do.
BRUTUS. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I’ll leave you.
CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.
BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved (Among which number, Cassius, be you one) Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.
CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing.
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