A moiety of the world.
Der. He is dead, Cæsar;
Not by a public minister of justice, 20
Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand,
Which writ his honour in the acts it did,
Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
Splitted the heart. This is his sword; 24
I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd
With his most noble blood.
Cæs. Look you sad, friends?
The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
To wash the eyes of kings.
Agr. And strange it is, 28
That nature must compel us to lament
Our most persisted deeds.
Mæc. His taints and honours
Wag'd equal with him.
Agr. A rarer spirit never
Did steer humanity; but you, gods, will give us 32
Some faults to make us men. Cæsar is touch'd.
Mæc. When such a spacious mirror's set before him,
He needs must see himself.
Cæs. O Antony!
I have follow'd thee to this; but we do lance 36
Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day,
Or look on thine; we could not stall together
In the whole world. But yet let me lament, 40
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
That thou, my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war, 44
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
19 moiety: half
43 top of all design: in all high ambitions
