If you can Sob

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on. ’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through. See what a rent the envious Casca made. Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed, And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, As rushing out of doors to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all. For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statue (Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I and you and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, (Antony lifts Caesar’s cloak.) Here is himself, marred as you see with traitors.  

If you can sob, stand by to do so now. You all do know this blouson: I look back to That first occasion Julius put it on: ‘Twas in July at twilight in his camp, That day of martial triumph by Namur…. Look at this gap that Cassius’ dirk ran through. Look what a gash invidious Casca dug; Through this, look! darling Brutus stuck his shiv, And, as his loathly sharp was drawn away, Mark you how Julius’ blood, pursuing it, Shot rushing out of doors, to find this out, If Brutus so unkindly rang, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Julius’crush: Quantify, O you gods, how fond of him Julius was. This was a cut unkind, And singularly so. As Julius, So upright, saw him stab, what got him down Was not just traitors’ arms. A total lack Of thankful thinking laid him low, and burst His mighty mainspring. Muffling up his phiz Within his coat, right by Sir Magnus’s Statuary, or its plinth, which ran throughout With blood, down Julius falls. O what a fall Was that, my good compatriots! You and I And all our crowd brought low, whilst riding high Was bloody traitors’ triumph, flourishing. O, now you sob; that’s how I know you got Struck hard by pity’s dint. What gracious drops! Kind souls, what, do you sob and only scan Wounds upon Julius' garb? Just look at this! (Antony lifts J.C.’s cloak.) It’s actually him, whom traitors hurt.