Caesar: The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
Caesar: Et tu, Brute!
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
Cassius: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Mark Antony: Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Brutus: Not that I lov'd Caesar less, but that I lov'd Rome more.
Caesar: Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!
Cinna: Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
Let me have men about me that are fat,
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights.
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.