Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare's The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, a historical tragedy in five acts, was written around 1599 and is believed to have been one of the first plays performed at the newly built Globe Theatre in London, with a documented performance noted by Swiss visitor Thomas Platter in September of that year. Composed during the late Elizabethan era—a time of political anxiety over Queen Elizabeth I's advancing age and the uncertain succession, which raised fears of civil unrest— the play explores themes of ambition, republicanism, tyranny, rhetoric, and the consequences of political assassination, subtly reflecting contemporary English concerns about power and stability without directly mirroring them. Shakespeare's primary source was Sir Thomas North's 1579 English translation of Plutarch's Parallel Lives (specifically the biographies of Julius Caesar, Marcus Brutus, and Mark Antony), from which he drew key events, character insights, and even some phrasing, though he condensed timelines, added dramatic elements like the funeral orations, and emphasized psychological and moral conflicts for theatrical effect. Set in ancient Rome in 44 BCE, the play dramatizes the real historical conspiracy against the powerful general and dictator Julius Caesar following his victory over Pompey, his assassination on the Ides of March by senators including his friend Brutus, the ensuing chaos sparked by Mark Antony's masterful oration, and the eventual defeat of the conspirators at the Battle of Philippi. Though titled after Caesar, the drama centers more on Brutus as its tragic hero, torn between personal loyalty and devotion to the Roman Republic. As one of Shakespeare's shorter and more action-driven works, blending political intrigue with profound speeches on liberty and betrayal, Julius Caesar has endured as a timeless commentary on the fragility of democracy, the power of crowds, and the moral ambiguities of revolutionary violence, influencing countless adaptations and interpretations across centuries. 

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Transcript

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Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare In the ancient streets of Rome, where the Tiber flowed its slow course between marble temples and crowded forums, the festival of Lupercle filled the air with shouts and laughter. Julius Caesar had returned triumphant from his wars against Pompey, and the common people poured into the thoroughfares to cheer him. Cobblers and carpenters left their tools behind, wearing their best clothes, waving garlands and shouting Caesar's name as though he were already a god. Two tribunes, Flavius and Merilus, pushed through the throng with scowling faces. They seized the carpenter by the shoulder. What meanest thou by this? Merilus demanded, Thou dost not remember Pompey? The man stammered that he had come to see Caesar. Merilus turned on the crowd in fury. You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft have you climbed up to walls and battlements, to towers and windows, yeah, to chimney tops, your infants in your arms, and there have set the live long day with patient expectation to see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. Now they strewed flowers for the man who had conquered him. The tribunes tore the decoration from Caesar's statues and drove the revelers away, hoping to humble the rising tyrant before his power grew too great. Caesar himself appeared in procession, tall and commanding, his purple robe sweeping the stones. At his side walked Calpurnia, his wife, and Mark Anni, bare chested for the sacred race. Senators and priests followed. A soothsayer in the press cried out, Caesar, the general paused. Who calls? The man pressed forward. Beware the eyes of march. Caesar looked at him, then shrugged. He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass. The procession moved on. Behind them, two noble Romans lingered, Marcus Brutus and Caius Cassius. Cassius studied his companion's troubled face. Brutus, I do observe you now of late. I have not from your eyes a gentleness and show of love as I was wont to have. Brutus admitted a heaviness within him, yet swore it was not aimed at Cassius. Cassius seized a moment. He spoke of their equal birth, their shared honor, and the danger that one man, Caesar, should tower above them all. Why should that name be sounded more than yours? he asked. Write them together. Yours is as fair a name. Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well. Weigh them, it is as heavy. Conjure with them. Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. He reminded Brutus how Caesar had once cried for help in the Tiber like any other man, yet now the Romans bowed as if he were divine. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. Casca joined them, breathless from the games. He told how Anne had thrice offered Caesar a crown, and Caesar refused it each time, though the crowd roared louder with every refusal. Then Caesar had suffered falling sickness in the marketplace, foaming and speechless, while the people pitted him. Yet Wei recovered. They cheered him still. Cassius' eyes gleamed. He saw the path opening. That night, under a sky torn by thunder and strange portents, fire from heaven, men walking in flame, a lion whelping in the streets. Cassius gathered others. Casca, Cinna, Decius Brutus, Metellusimber, Trebonius, and Caius Ligarius. They met in secret and swore to strike Caesar down on the eyes of March. The fifteenth day of the month. Brutus alone hesitated, pacing his orchard as a storm raged. He loved Caesar, yet feared what Caesar might become. He would be crowned, Brutus murmured to himself. How that might change his nature, there's a question. He read the forged letters scattered at his window by Cassius' men, each urging him to act for Rome's sake. When the conspirators arrived, cloaked and silent, Brutus took command. He would not let them swear an oath. Their cause itself was enough. He forbade the murder of Annie, saying it would make their deed too bloody. Let's be sacrificers but not butchers, he said. They agreed to strike only Caesar. Portia, Brutus' wife, found him restless. She knelt, showing the wound she had given herself a thigh to prove her strength. I have made strong proof of my constancy, she said, and I can bear the weight of your secrets. Brutus moved, promised to tell her all. In Caesar's house the same night, Calpurnia cried out in her sleep. She had dreamed that Caesar's statue ran with blood, and smiling Romans bathed their hands in it. She begged him not to go to the Senate. When beggars die, there are no comets seen. The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. Caesar answered calmly, Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never tasted death but once. Yet he yielded and sent word he would stay home. Decius Brutus arrived at dawn with a different tale. He reinterpreted the dream as a happy omen. Romans would draw reviving blood from Caesar's statue. He spoke of the Senate's plan to offer Caesar the crown that day. Caesar, flattered, dressed and went forth, ignoring both Calpurnius' fears and a warning letter from the honest Artemidteris that listed every conspirator by name. At the capital the senators waited. Caesar took his seat. Metellus Cimber knelt. Begging the recall of his banished brother, Caesar refused. I am constant as a northern star. Casker struck first, crying, speak hands or me. The daggers flashed. Caesar defended himself until he saw Brutus among the killers. Eti tu Brutai? He gasped, then covered his face and fell. Then fall, Caesar, he whispered as he died. The conspirators bathed their hands in his blood, and marched through the streets crying, Liberty, freedom, tyranny is dead. They found Mark Antony's servant waiting with a message. Antony wished only to know why Caesar had died, and would follow Brutus if the cause were just. Brutus, trusting, sent safe conduct. Antony arrived, saw the body, and asked only to speak at the funeral. Cassius warned against it, but Brutus overruled him. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, but speak all good you can devise of Caesar. The forum filled. Brutus spoke first, calm and measured. Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his, not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. The crowd murmured approval. Then Antony stepped forward, carrying Caesar's body. Friends, Romans' countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. He reminded them of Caesar's triumphs, his conquests, his love for the people. He read Caesar's will, which left every Roman citizen seventy-five drachmas and lands along the Tiber. He showed the mangled cloak, pointing out each stab wound. Look, in this place ran Cassius dagger through. See what a rent the envious cascade made. Through this the well beloved Brutus stabbed. The crowd turned. Revenge, they roared. Burn the traitors' houses. Anne smiled as they rushed away. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art a foot. Take thou what course thou wilt. In the frenzy the mob seized Sinna the poet, who protested, he was not Sinna, the conspirator. Tear him for his bad verses, they shouted and ripped him apart. Far from Rome, the Triumvirs, Anni, young Octavius, and the old soldier Lepidus sat in a cold room drawing up lists. They prescribed hundreds for death, including Cicero. Lepidus agreed to sacrifice his brother if Antony would give up his nephew. When Lepidus left, Antony mocked him as a slight, unmarriedable man, fit only to run errands. Octavius listened, learning the new order of power. In the camp near Sardis, Brutus and Cassius met. Their quarrel was bitter. Cassius accused Brutus of wronging him over money. Brutus accused Cassius of corruption. You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella for taking bribes, Brutus said coldly. Cassius cried that Brutus loved him no longer. At last they clasped hands. A poet stumbled in, singing a friendship and was dismissed. News came that Portia had swallowed hot coals and died. Brutus bore the blow in silence. That night, as Brutus read in his tent, the ghost of Caesar appeared. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi, it said, and vanished. Brutus woke his servants. It is the weakness of mine eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition, he told them. Yet he knew what it meant. At Philippi the armies face each other. Octavius and Antony commanded one side, Brutus and Cassius the other. Before battle, Antony and Octavius taunted the enemy across the lines. Cassius, gloomy, bade farewell to Brutus. If we do meet again, why we shall smile? If not, why then this parting was well made? Brutus answered, If it be so, it is a good day to die. The fighting began. Cassius, seeing his men driven back, sent Titinius to scout. When Titinius was surrounded by horsemen, Cassius believed all was lost. He gave his sword to his slave Pindarus. Come, Pindarus, thou hast been my servant. Hold thy sword, and turn away thy face while I run upon it. Pindarus obeyed. Titinius returned victorious, only to find his general dead. He killed himself beside the body. Brutus fought on, though defeat pressed close. He begged his friends to hold his sword while he ran upon it. One by one they refused until old Stratto agreed. Brutus grasped the hilt. Caesar, now be still. I killed note with half so good a will. He ran forward and fell. When the battle ended, Enni and Octavius stood over the body. Lucilius, captured earlier, had claimed to be Brutus to save his friend. Enni praised him. Then he looked down at the dead man. This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only, in a general honest thought and common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that nature might stand up and say to all the world, This was a man. Octavius ordered honorable burial with military rites. The rest would be remembered only as traitors. Thus ended the conspiracy that had sought to save the Republic. The Roman world passed into the hands of new masters, and the Ides of March became a memory written in blood.