ANTONY'S EULOGY OF JULIUS CAESAR (SHAKESPEARE, JULIUS CAESAR ACT 3 SCENE 2)

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:

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault;

And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,--

For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honorable men,--

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man

.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once,--not without cause:

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?--

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason!--Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE - HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY

Kevin Kline in Hamlet's Soliloquy



“To be, or not to be, that is the question;

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life,

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.”