The dint of pity:--these are gracious drops. Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold Our Cæsar, vesture wounded? Look ye here! Here is himself--marred, as you see, by traitors. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny! They that have done this deed are honorable! What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it! They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood:--I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, And Brutus, Antony, there were an Antony, Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cæsar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny! Shakespeare. CCXLI. HAMLETS SOLILOQUY.