The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. Уильям Шекспир

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 color 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.

      Re-enter Lucius.

        LUCIUS. 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.

                                                 Gives him the letter.

        BRUTUS. Get you to bed again, it is not day.

          Is not tomorrow, boy, the ides of March?

        LUCIUS. I know not, sir.

        BRUTUS. Look in the calendar and bring me word.

        LUCIUS. I will, sir. Exit.

        BRUTUS. The exhalations whizzing in the air

          Give so much light that I may read by them.

                                           Opens the letter and reads.

          "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself!

          Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress!"

          "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!"

          Such instigations have been often dropp'd

          Where I have took them up.

          "Shall Rome, etc." 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!