Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Conjure with em, Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar. Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed, That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!