And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye
That you might see your shadow. I have heard
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus
And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes.
That’s true. And it’s too bad, Brutus, that you don’t have any mirrors that could display your hidden excellence to yourself. I’ve heard many of the noblest Romans—next to immortal Caesar—speaking of you, complaining of the tyranny of today’s government, and wishing that your eyes were working better.
Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me?
What dangers are you trying to lead me into, Cassius, that you want me to look inside myself for something that’s not there?
Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear.
And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of.
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus.
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester, if you know
That I do fawn on men and hug them hard
And, after, scandal them, or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
I’ll tell you, good Brutus. And since you know you can see yourself