Mark Antony Quotes

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

O judgment! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

Let noble Antony stand forth.

And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

Cry ‘havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.

Love, and be silent.

Give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.

But I am constant as the northern star.

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth.

This was the noblest Roman of them all.

I do not love Caesar less, but I love Rome more.

O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?

…And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war.

The choice and master spirits of this age.

My spirit and my place have in them power to make this bitter to thee.

When beggars die there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

So let it be with Caesar.

I have o’ershot myself, to tell you of it.

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times.

I doubt not of your wisdom.

These are their reasons: they are natural.

Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

I am no orator, as Brutus is.

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not within the stars but in ourselves.

They have grudged me off, ‘have me on the hip.’

I must be cruel only to be kind.

Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, that he is grown so great?

It was Greek to me.

You have trained me like a peasant.

The world is mine oyster.

The scar that never felt a wound.

Colder than the fish in the sea.

I will here be with the interest of the senators.

O that I were a ware of my estate!

Whose loss, to breathless death, with pale lips, trembling, and fainting, they kissed the sacred earth.

The ancients had it – it is the basis of all good dramas.

When love begins to sicken and decay it useth an enforced ceremony.

My thoughts are ripe for mischief.

She looks pale.

Love knows not ‘mine’ from ‘thine’.

As a sick girl.

There is no creature loves me, and if I die no soul will pity me.